


There's Life After High School

by wheremyinhalerat (bearsquares)



Series: Long halls + grey walls [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90's Music, Bisexuality, Bullying, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Coming of Age, Derogatory Language, Digital Art, F/F, F/M, High School AU, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Misogyny, Mixtape, Multi, Novel References, Platonic Love, Playlist, Polyamory, References to Drugs, Repressed Memories, Slow Dancing, Teen Movie References, Underage Drinking, bargain bin otome visual novel, lots and lots of relationships, poly losers club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/wheremyinhalerat
Summary: The 1995 High School AU That Wouldn't Die.It's a 90's teen movie gone horribly wrong! The gang goes to prom for the ultimate and worst teenage bonding experience. Some fall in love, others fall in love all over again.Oh, and Derry is extremely cursed.(Ch. 1 has links to the mixtapes and Spotify playlist that got me through thiiiisssss. Big thanks to everyone who stuck it out with me! Part 2 is in progress! ╭( ･ㅂ･)و)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh...I legit never thought I’d write a High School AU™ with the movie losers but here we are.
> 
> I'm basically just using a lot of the film's plot points and a few character-specific details (Stan's bite scars, Mike's parents being dead (boo), and Eddie having worn fanny packs as a kid.) There are also some call-backs to the novel just to fill in what I...wished the movie didn't leave out re: relationships within the group. Waah.  
> I like character design a lot (clearly) so I used this to kind of map them all out aaaaand to divorce them from the chil'ren actors because NOPE. I legit love drawing my 90's Losers so there are a fuck ton of doodles in this fic and all the fuck over my art blog.
> 
> Extra Notes:
> 
> Richie is 19 and I'm bad at math but everyone is 18, damnit. Whatever. AU, bitch! I wanted to keep them together while still kind of implying that the murders may have disrupted schooling for a lot of people. It depends on how deep you wanna cut this.
> 
> The wlw doesn't really come in until Chapter 10, but it's there!
> 
> There are some flashbacks and inner monologues - I'm using them a lot here because of the rotating POVs and to lay out those wacky hijinks that totally happened. IDK.
> 
> SIDE A: Derry High Prom 1995: https://kaseta.co/play/xdaWAdC  
> SIDE B: (Crab): https://kaseta.co/play/Pll3OdC  
> Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/racereff/playlist/0LbAXNVDJPECJqrxndI88z  
> (all released before June of ‘95 'cause I go hard))
> 
> There are mentions of fooling around and implied sex at the very end. There's nothing substantial here, that's for the next part. I apologize for myself in advance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're calling it preparation  
> You're waiting for a separation  
> You're nothing but another odd number  
> Memories that you won't remember  
> \- Hall & Oates, "Adult Education"

 

 

**1**

 

_Derry High School's Senior prom was rescheduled for June. Some genius in the admin office thought a pep rally would soften the blow of the news, maybe draw attention away from what moving prom meant for graduation. How wrong they were._

_Screwing up prom planning was a pain, sure, but delaying graduation? That was a complete dick move, as Richie Tozier would say, and the class of 1995's collective groan at the announcement made it clear that the pep wasn't working. The administration had lost them._

_The hallways already resembled the African Savanna more than a place of learning, and it was only going to get worse — a game of survival with prom itself as the final test of social dominance. For a certain group of students, however, survival was no game. Survival was a gift and safety, as they would come to realize, was a privilege.  
_

 

**2**

 

 _Earplugs, where are the damn earplugs?_ Eddie patted at his pockets until he found a small, crumpled baggie of what looked like mushy foam gumdrops. He crammed one into each ear, mentally kicking himself for passing on cutting with his somewhat estranged friends, Richie and Bev. But they were probably smoking, and, as an asthmatic, he would have to stand several feet upwind of them in order to hold a conversation. That was no fun _,_ but this late May pep rally was torture. It was a big, loud reminder that prom was lurking just around the corner  _—_ God help the losers of the world who couldn't hope to get dates and planned on staying home. But Eddie was fine with staying home and enduring his mother for the night because prom was going to be a major heap.  All people cared about, as far as he could tell, was getting laid or something close to it _—_ a temporary hook-up followed by the natural death of a _high school romance_.

 _So stupid_ , he thought.

The idea of going to a high school dance made his gut clench in embarrassment. He'd never even wanted to date anyone at Derry High _—_ not anyone within his league, anyway. Besides, it wasn't as if anybody would want to go with him because Eddie Kaspbrak was an athletics pariah. He got booted from the track team the previous month and now, forsaken by his former teammates, Eddie was roaming the halls with a big red X painted on his back. And his ass. And his entire face _—_ hell, his entire body. They tossed him back to the wolves and he got a familiar taste of his first 10 years of school.

Prom was a non-option for him. A night of re-runs with mother would have to do.

 

**3**

 

Ask anyone at Derry High where to sit at events and they would say, "as far away from the band as possible." Mike Hanlon was front and center, pit-side, swimming in high school pep (if one could call a kid trying his hardest to play the tuba right in your goddamn ear "pep") but it was not by choice. Playing high school football (go, Tigers) had been a choice; being there _,_ _swimming in it_ , was an obligation. The obligations never ended, it seemed. But it was his choice to serve on the prom committee. One of the members transferred out mid-year and, being Mike Hanlon, he couldn't say no to more after-school activities, even if it making Senior prom happen. It was the ultimate clusterfuck of pairing off and hooking up, after all, and he wanted nothing more than to run away screaming. There was no escape for him now; his fantasy of a prom-free prom night was just that and he would have to make the best of it. He would probably get a little drunk and request house jams every five minutes, and he would definitely go stag _—_ anything would beat playing butler-boyfriend for one of the cheerleaders. (It was early May and he was already dodging “promposals” from all sides.) The key was keeping his head down and momentum up. But, god, it was getting to him.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his metal folding chair. _When am I going to finally crack?_ Living with his memories, knowing what he knew, Mike wondered if it mattered. He might hit his limit and drop dead at graduation from a prom-induced aneurysm for all he knew. Was that better than losing his mind over something that happened _—_ that _ended_ years ago? That which had been unreal enough to now dismiss as a nightmare?

 _This tuba-playing is a nightmare._ "Alright, stop." Mike turned in his chair. The underclassman stared back with nervous, moony eyes. "That's just...enough. Stop."

 

**4**

 

Like most mandatory high school assemblies, the pep rally was hell and Stan Uris, damn him, still cared enough about attendance to show up. He got there early, even. Who shows up early to hell?

_Uris, Stanley. Present and accounted for._

But this hell was temporary. Stan wasn't bound to prom by sports or clubs like some of his friends. He had been plenty occupied in his high school career, with his own hobbies and his responsibilities to his father. A random bystander might call him a no-life or say he was wasting his youth, but he had no regrets  _—_ not even after years of watching his athlete friends enjoy thriving social lives. Stan knew his limits. He had seen the dark circles under Ben's eyes and knew Mike would collapse if he'd let himself. Even now both looked ready to die in their seats down front, crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder with the other jocks, catching the full assault of the so-so band.

_No regrets._

_Maybe one._

But why would he put himself through prom when he'd already lived through his own Brat Pack nightmare? Why pretend he wasn't still troubled by memories of _her_ , or whoever he thought she was?  


Why? Because those memories could rot and come June, he decided, they would be non-existent.  And good riddance to it _—_ good riddance to everything but getting out. Graduate, move to New York City, work for his uncle, get a degree in accounting, become a goddamn accountant. His plan of escape was logical and, more importantly, safe. It could have been something more interesting and a little less stereotypical, but it beat the hell out of staying in Derry.

 

**5**

 

Bill was asleep in the senior lounge, completely unaware of the assembly. It wouldn't have mattered to him either way; the end of the school year was approaching fast and he was spending most of his free time preparing for college. He was always half-present in class, either spacing out or editing his essays in his head. Between periods, he squirreled himself away in the library, then headed straight home at the end of the day _—_ always at 2:30 _._ W rite, sleep, study, pass out, repeat. 

Greater Derry High didn't see much of Bill Denbrough _—_ so little, in fact, that m ost underclassmen couldn't describe what he looked like or how he behaved. His name only came up in rumors, usually that he had died and the school was covering it up for legal reasons. He _was_ dead in a manner of speaking. And dead people weren't worried about something like Senior Prom. He had forgotten about it completely, in fact. But that would change in the following weeks.

Bill and his six childhood friends would become painfully aware of prom, and pull a social stunt which earned them the title of “The Derry High Bang Gang”. (Somewhat more impressive, if not crude, than "The Losers Club" in his opinion.)

As long as Bill would remember prom, he would wonder if they were actually trying to prove something. Was it a prank or was something else at play the afternoon they gathered on the baseball field? In Derry, everything happened for a reason. There was always something pulling strings beneath the unassuming surface.  But if Bill knew anything about high school, he also understood that some things happened for no reason at all.

 

**6**

 

The sixth period bell rang and teens flooded the hallways of Derry High in aggressive piranha-like schools.

It was the Monday before prom. Walking to class had become a high-risk operation in this preoccupied climate _—_ students were bumping shoulders, tripping over shoelaces and abandoned binders, even walking into doors _—_ and it was all thanks to the mind-numbing power of hormones. This nervous energy was unique to the upperclassmen, but no one was immune to the second-hand embarrassment that came with it.

Stan found Ben at their usual meeting place: under the walkway at the corner of the lawn,  just  a click away from the football field. They walked among the other students with ease and maturity, chatting about their weekends and homework assignments for their classes (which they agreed were way too long for this late in the year). Of their seven friends, Stan and Ben had the most classes together over the years. It was nice, especially since they always seemed to miss each other outside of school. Their old group rarely got together for various reasons. As far as Stan knew, the only exceptions were Ben and Eddie, who ran track together, and Beverly and Richie, whose after-school activities overlapped. Respectively, she practiced the piano and sang (beautifully) while he squatted in the A.V. Room. They had some classes together, of course, but otherwise, it seemed like they just loitered around the grounds smoking and goofing off.

Stan briefly wondered if either had followed through with quitting. _"Yell at me if you see me light up,"_ Beverly had said. Like hell he would ever yell at her, but, as she explained, it wasn't doing her voice any favors. It wasn't like teachers and staff were going around telling kids not to smoke. (Stan remembered Richie giving one of the custodians a light once. It was part of Derry High's charm, he supposed.)

Derry High wasn't a "bad school" but students had almost no trouble getting away with substances and petty crimes. As long as it didn't happen during a visit from the superintendent or interfere with the football team, it usually went unpunished, which explained the lasting success of DD Hall: a short, dirty alleyway connecting the lawn to the football field _—_ unassuming yet hard to miss. As the lore went, DD Hall was n amed long before their time, probably back in the late 60's, for the "dealing and doing of drugs". Whoever named it could have added a third D, but that didn't roll off the tongue as well.

Neither Ben nor Stan paid much attention to it until that day, when a brief peripheral glimpse of fiery red hair caught their attention. They paused in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the students cursing and shoving past them, and waited. Seconds later,  Beverly  Marsh stepped out from behind the Hall's dumpster. She was pacing and, to their horror, doing exactly what she wasn't supposed to be doing.

“Dammit, Bev,” Stan said under his breath. He was relieved that she wasn't doing anything worse; people usually gathered around the dumpster to smoke joints or drop acid.  They'd trip out listening to gym classes and football practices going on behind them — it was like a  poorly  constructed social commentary you'd find in an after-school special. “She's going to get lung cancer.”

Ben was frowning. “She's stressed.”

Stan felt a pang of guilt. Beverly always had her reasons, even if her actions seemed strange or reckless. “Duh.  I wonder  why," he said. “Did you see that kid from band serenade that girl this morning?” Ben raised his eyebrows in a mixture of alarm and amusement. “I’m not joking. I wanted to eat a bullet. On a fucking Monday, too, like…who _does_ that?”

“Think anyone’s tried to ask Bev to prom?”

A mocking, almost manic laugh tore out of Stan. “Good luck. I’d almost pay to see that crash and burn.”

Ben checked his watch. “Fuck. We're gonna be late for class.”

As if on cue, someone (a well-built someone) approached Beverly from the other end of the alleyway. He walked with the confidence of a god in tight football pants. Stan knew him right away; from the hotshot grin on his face to the stupid little towel around his neck. _Alex Hearst._ Ben and Stan bristled. Hearst was the alpha jock — loved, hated, feared, envied —  mostly  hated because he was a smug piece of shit.

He had no business messing with  Beverly.

Stan frowned  deeply, tugging Ben toward the corner wall so they could eavesdrop.  They managed a Scooby-Doo "one head on top of the other" maneuver even though they were both nearly six feet tall.

_“... what for?”_

_“...why not?...be fun…”_

_“...keep walking…”_

_“...liked you...4 years...treat me like shit…”_

Ben opened his mouth to say something but Stan shushed him. The lawn was finally clear of boisterous teens so they could pick up more of the conversation.

“Are you serious, dude?”

“‘Course I am! You're hot as hell, Marsh.” Hearst's voice was low and cocky _—_ maddening enough to make Ben start strangling his backpack strap right next to Stan's ear.

“Popular fellow like you? _Surely_ you already have a date.”

“I don't."

“That fucking dick.” Ben was seething. "He's faking so hard.”

“Let's go.” Stan pushed Ben backward, around the corner of the building. “We can’t spy on her like this. And we can't jump to conclusions.”

“But—”

Without thinking, he took Ben by the hand and led him across the lawn. “Don't worry," Stan said, his voice sharp. He was sure his cheeks were flushed but he didn't care. "We're getting to the bottom of this, you bet your fucking fur.”

 

 

**7**

 

Stanley Uris never cut class unless it was an emergency. Sometimes he couldn't help it and needed to step out or finish whatever task had held him up, but he knew it was better to avoid consequences — especially high school punishments. It seemed like teachers were competing to see who could come up with the most pointless ways to waste students' time and he wasn't interested in finding out what they were. But today was different. Today, in his current mood, Stanley would have told his calculus teacher to go cram a week's worth of lunch detentions right up his ass.

Seeing  Beverly  alone again, seeing her approached by a known womanizer, had whipped up a strange mixture of emotions in him. She didn't need protecting; she wasn't weak or naïve, but she was a target _—_ had been for years _—_ and that meant she was vulnerable. Of course he worried. They all worried, they  just  kept it to themselves. The guys, he realized, mostly went on through high school like nothing was wrong. In Stan's case, his problems simply changed. He was too big to shove into a locker now and, if anyone still made fun of him for being Jewish, he never heard about it. Instead, he became fixated on his appearance  _—_ bordering obsessive  _—_ and suffered from regular migraines. But Beverly was trapped in middle school, harassed for the same tired reasons. If he had understood that, maybe he would have tried harder. Why hadn't he? What happened to all of them?

His navy blue Keds squeaked a little as he tiptoed through the vacant halls. He had a good sense of where everyone was during the day. Eddie had European History at this time — somewhere down the 300's hallway if he remembered correctly. Stan thought of Beverly again, how he had no idea where she was at any given time. He felt so guilty about it that he considered giving up and going to class. For all he knew she hated his guts, so what business did he have getting everyone involved in this whole paranoid mess? But it was too late. Ben was already skipping class to track down Bill and Mike. He had agreed, though, so Stan wasn't completely crazy. He hoped.

Stan took a quick peek into room 302. Eddie was asleep at his desk.

 _Fuck_.

If Eddie weren't splayed across his desk like road-kill, Stan could have tapped on the door glass or something, waved, did a little gesture — _ball field at three_ — easy. But there was no avoiding it. He had to make an ass of himself.

_I can’t believe this. Sleep at home, you jack-off._

Though Stan would never admit it, Richie had a brilliant knack for disrupting class. Sometimes he even made it look fun. While Stan didn't suffer from the same restlessness, he had the odd fantasy of standing up and walking out of class the moment he felt like it. Now, he decided, was an appropriate time to indulge that secret urge. He took a deep breath and burst into the classroom.

The door swung on its loose hinges and struck the wall with a sharp _BANG!_

The teacher stopped lecturing. The class  nearly  broke their necks whipping around to look at him. Eddie jolted awake in his seat.

“Oh! This isn't the bathroom…” The sound of his voice caught Eddie’s attention. Stan did a nervous little ball and glove motion with his hands. Eddie raised an eyebrow, more anxious than confused. Maybe he thought Stan wanted to kick his ass after school. _Depending on how the next ten seconds go, that could very well be what I mean._ “Strike one for me, am I right?” The students were murmuring. He was beginning to regret the whole thing. But Eddie, after glancing around to make sure no one would notice, nodded his head.

Stan, relieved, excused himself and bowed out of the classroom, shutting the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finding Richie wasn't difficult, especially for someone who knew him as well as Stan did. He had a couple of hangout spots around the school, usually hidden places where he could nap or smoke.  The locations and timing fell into a pattern over the years, which was almost more reliable than his class schedule.  He would loaf around the ball field between morning classes, and sometimes retreat into the woods behind the overflow trailers.  The logical place for Richie to be on a Monday afternoon was the A.V. Room, likely dozing off between stacks of dusty VHS tapes.

 

 

 

 

 

This Monday afternoon, the A.V. Room  was dead silent — and locked.

Stan groaned. _He’s either in here or he’s not. And I’m not about to run all over the goddamn school looking for that slacker._

He jiggled the knob, then knocked. No answer. He thought about pounding on the door, even kicking it, but there were at least two classrooms with their doors propped open, and he had come too far to get caught now. After a moment, he looked down and noticed the crack beneath the door. He got on his hands and knees. Stan lowered his face down to the slot — cold, musty air washed over his nose. It was disgusting, but he was skipping class for this, so if he had to mash his face against the floor to coax Richie out of his nerd hovel, then he would.

“Richie! Open up!”

Silence.

“ _So help me god_ —" Stan took a breath, still winded from running through the school like a maniac. "Open the door or I'm gonna put dog shit in your pillowcase. I know where you live and you know damn well locks won't keep me out!”

There was a faint shuffling noise.

Stan righted himself, dusting off his two-sizes-too-big cardigan as the door cracked open. Richie peered out into the hallway, squinting against the dim lights. The room was pitch dark behind him.

“Well, hot _dog_. Stan the Man’s come to visit,” he croaked. “Come in.”

“You don't live here, asshole.”

“Eat my shorts, hater.” The lights flickered on and Richie shut the door behind Stan. He yawned a little, plopping down on one of the school-issue plastic chairs. His hair was such a mess that Stan saw no point in trying to fix it. Richie cleared his throat. “Can I get you any tea, love?”

“Richie, listen—”

“Mineral water?”

Stan glared at him.

“What time is it?”

“1:45. Listen, we need—”

“Wait a sec." Richie's face lit up. Stan thought he looked extra slappable. "...are _you_ cutting class?”

“Alex Hearst asked Beverly out.”

Richie's mischievous grin faded. “Why the fuck would he go and do a thing like that?”

“He's a horny jock, is my guess,” Stan said. His cheeks were hot again.

“No way she bought it, though," Richie said. Stan agreed with him, now aware that his behavior had been irrational. Still, he couldn't say for sure, so he shrugged. “You don't know? Did you just fucking walk away?” Richie's voice was noticeably louder. Their conversation wouldn't get far, not with both of them tired and annoyed.

“Just be at the field after school, okay?” Richie looked ready to argue, but Stan cut him off, already halfway out the door. “And for god's sake, do something about your hair.”

 

**  
**

**8**

 

Eddie found the old baseball field a few weeks into freshman year. Baseball at Derry High died out in the 70's and he was  absolutely  torn up over it. The Losers Club started meeting up to play undermanned games of baseball for his sake. Eddie liked to pitch. He would perch himself on the pitcher's mound and rant about the school wasting the field. "It's a  perfectly  good sandlot and they're  just  letting it sit here!" His ranting only got louder and angrier when Stan came up to bat; he could hit a home run like it was nothing. "Uris could fucking take us to state!" He'd continue squawking while Stan took his obligatory strolls around the bases. The games  eventually  stopped as they grew further out of touch, but they kept using the field as their space.

It served them well as a spacious and private little hangout. The rusty fence and old wooden bleachers stuck out of the tall grass like ancient ruins. The bleachers were rickety in places, but still sturdy enough for seven people. There was something comforting about the empty, forgotten dugouts and the overgrown grass. The field had an  oddly  pleasant, nostalgic feeling to it.

It was much less so that day. Each of the six guys looked incredibly put off when Stan repeated what he and Ben had seen, Mike in particular.

“There’s no way she would.” He was looking down at his hands, cracking his knuckles. “Bev’s smarter than that. I know the guy and he’s never been nice to a girl in his life. And I don’t just mean playin’ ‘em — he’s a shitbag.” Mike grimly crossed his arms. “Jesus...I was wondering why all of the locker room talk turned to rumors about who she’s been...y'know.”

Bill shook his head wearily. Ben looked ready to make tracks to the football field and knock his teeth out.

“What about Vic Masterson in 9th grade? Or that fucking burnout last fall?” Eddie said. “We said the same thing and what happened?”

“Don’t be a dick.” Richie was absently ripping blades of grass to pieces.

“I’m not! I just don’t want to watch it happen all over again—”

“And do nothing.” Stan murmured. "It's not like I think she would — I mean, none of us do, it's just...we don't know what might have happened to her. Like, why was she in that fucking crack alley?" Richie cast a cautious sidelong glance at him.

Bill leaned back against the fence. It creaked and grated beneath his weight. “What are we gonna do about it, then?”

“ _Something_.” Ben replied. “At least talk to her instead of going around like this.”

“This is touchy stuff, though.” He said. “People can get mad when you try to tell them what to do.”

“And talk about their patterns,” Mike whispered.

Richie chewed on his lip, nudging his sunglasses up the semi-crooked bridge of his nose. He had plenty of self-destructive patterns of his own. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you two stuck around. I mean, if you're really that worried.” Richie said.

The look on Stan’s face could have frozen anyone’s blood, but Richie was used to him. He defiantly met his gaze. “So you’d just listen in on her conversations if some guy talked to her?”

“Wasn't _some guy_ , though, was he?”

“You’d wanna tell her you’ve been doing that?” He glowered at Richie. “You wanna explain to Beverly that we’re worried she’s going to get with another abusive asshole? Go the fuck ahead, man!”

Richie's eyes bored into his. “We did it for _you._ ” He raised his voice in a rare display of open anger. “Erica was treating you like shit! You were fucking depressed so we told you we were fucking worried about you — we _helped_ you, Stan!”

He was on his feet in an instant. “She’s a WOMAN, you dumb piece of shit!” Richie remained sitting cross-legged in the grass. “She doesn’t have other girls to go to anymore! WE can’t do that for her because we’re MEN. We can't fuck with her privacy like that. Like, fuck, you think she'd be any _less_ embarrassed than I was? We all fucking care about her but we can’t—” Stan’s eyes were rimmed with red and he was almost shaking trying to regain his composure. “We can’t worry about her like that.”

Bill placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stan. It’s okay.” He didn’t reply, but he sat down, covering his mouth with his hand. Richie stared down at his grass-stained hands, eyes darkened with anger.

“Any real suggestions?” Bill asked.

Ben and Eddie looked as if they were just saddled with curing cancer.

Mike cocked his head  thoughtfully  before saying, “kind of a lame idea, but I have to go to prom anyway. I can ask if she wants to come with and we can hang out. It could get boring since I’m doing a bunch of stuff for the committee, though.”

“I probably have to—” Ben remembered flipping the track coach a double bird and walking off the field. “Guess I’m there.”

Eddie squinted up at him, smirking. “You just wanna see Beverly in a pretty dress.”

"Dress?" Ben's hand flew to the back of his head. He began rubbing his cropped hair  nervously,  carefully  considering the idea. “Well, I mean, are you saying you don't?” Eddie  quickly  looked away from him, grumbling something under his breath.

“I’ll go if you two are going,” Stan added, visibly calmer. “We don’t hang out enough and if you’re there anyway—”

Eddie threw his head back in defeat. “Okay, FINE! I wanna go, too! Well...not _want,_ but you know what I mean.”

While the other three laughed and teased him, Bill looked over at Richie. His dark eyes dodged to the right, watching the others. The anxious extrovert part of him was wrestling with his lingering anger toward Stan. He was so  fiercely  protective of his friends that he’d turn on a dime and fight with any of them, for any of them.

Richie noticed Bill staring at him and furrowed his brows.

Bill smiled. “You down?”

He half-shrugged in reply.

“What are you all doing out here?”

It was Beverly's voice — pleasant on any other day, but now drained and a little raspy. She was  clearly  ticked off finding they’d gotten together without her. Even though it was something about her.

Richie, naturally, had to open his mouth first. “What are _you_ doing out here?!”

She looked furious. Her hair was fire in the afternoon sunlight and Bill couldn't help but admire her for a moment. Richie swallowed a little, now regretting that little slip of his bad mood. The others cringed.

Beverly  took her unlit cigarette from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. “I had a shitty day so I was gonna light one up, sue me.” Her hand was on her hip, body squared toward them. “Is this a private conversation or something? I can leave.”

Stan and Ben said, “No!” in unison, their guilt painfully obvious.

Beverly ’s face looked tired and sullen. “What the fuck is up with you guys? You’re acting all shady.”

While Bill tried to come up with a tactful way of explaining that they were (not) talking about her, Eddie caved. The others looked ready to clap a hand over his mouth or worse.  Beverly  ’s hard stare softened a little at Eddie’s confession and she took a seat beside him. The two of them didn’t interact much during senior year but they had a deep bond. Eddie looked up to her and she  clearly  had a soft spot for him. It was evident in the way they sat with their shoulders and thighs  barely  pressed together. It was hard to describe the relationship they had — the closest one could get was "mother-son". But that was kind of creepy and didn't  really  fit.

Ben hung his head. “I’m sorry, Bev. We kind of flipped out.”

Her lip curled in disgust. “Why would I trust a freakin’ Überjock? Why would I even go to some lame-ass prom? I don't wanna end up covered in pig’s blood or something.”

Richie raised his eyebrows. “Do you have powers?" He whipped his sunglasses off, gazing at her in astonishment. "Can you set stuff on fire if you get mad enough?”

She narrowed her eyes, "you tell me." He held her gaze for a moment and she punched him square in the shoulder.

“ _Shit_ , Bev," he winced. "Don't try to cover it up, I'm onto you."

“Let her finish,” Bill ruffled Richie's  unruly  hair, tipping him back and forth.

“He called me basically every girl-slur when I turned him down. I got him pretty good, though. He was all _"Jesus, you really are a cunt"_ and I go _"you're very close — want me to draw one for you?"_ Then I tossed my cigarette butt and told him to go fetch.”

Richie high-fived her, but the others were silent, somewhere between ashamed and furious.

There wasn't much bullying or random ass-kickings anymore, but senior year wasn't easy. A brutal domino effect seemed to be taking place within their little group. Mike had been supporting himself since his grandfather died. Ben had  been accepted  into one of the top architecture programs in the US but it was over 2,000 miles away. Richie was coming to grips with moving to the exact opposite end of the country to have a decent shot at a career. Stan was dealing with the aftermath of a terrible relationship. The new track coach that year completely blackballed Eddie and he was back on the high school hit list. Bill was  basically  a sleep-deprived hermit. Beverly's issue was the same as it had always been, from most of the same people.

She looked around at them, smiling  wryly . “You guys know I'm used to shit like that. It's not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal, Beverly.” Bill said firmly, looking her directly in the eyes. “Your last few weeks of high school shouldn't be this fucking awful — we should be having fun with what's left before we're out on our own.” For a moment, she looked weary and doubtful, years beyond her age. "Fun" became a dirty word in '89, but it was '95 and they were about to lose each other instead of their limbs.

“Know what?” Eddie piped up, fists clenched. “What's the big deal with all this—” he chewed on the word for a second, "slut stuff, anyway?” Everyone looked a little surprised. Eddie had a foul mouth but he almost always avoided derogatory or sexual words. He couldn't even say "orgasm".  Bill and Richie still teased him for saying "post-coital bliss" when they played dirty charades at summer camp one year . “Why don't they call guys like Hearst a slut? He's the one doing a bunch of girls like they're nothing! Bevvie didn't do anything!”

“Eddie—” Stan said.

“Is it seriously just cause she's a girl? It’s bullshi—”

Stan grabbed his shoulder. “ _Eddie._ ”

“What?!” There was a sniff and he looked down next to him. Beverly was biting into her lip, trying to keep her cool. She blinked and a few tears dripped onto her jeans. “Oh shit. I-I'm sorry—”

“No, sorry, it's…” she scrubbed at her face with the hem of her shirt. Her voice was a little stuffy but she was chuckling softly. “I fuckin’ love you, Eddie.” He went bright red, awkwardly rubbing her back for a second before putting his hands in his lap.

Richie crawled forward and started into some kind of mafioso voice. “I can take care a' the wet work, boss. I'll make it look like an accident. All's I need is a lead pipe and a trash bag—” She tousled his hair and he smiled lightly, dropping his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. The anger from earlier had vanished.

“We never spoke up enough.” Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “We’ve just watched people treat you like this for years and I—” His voice was a little shaky. “I’m so sorry.”

"No, Mike! It's ok — I never wanted..." Beverly paused, frowning deeply. "I don't want you to feel like you have to - I mean, you guys get it, too, so..."

Everyone was silent.

“We really fell apart.” Stan looked up at everyone else. “Like, we saw each other sometimes but we’re not as...”

“Close.” Bill finished. He hesitated before speaking again. The idea alone felt impossibly heavy. "The truth is we’re about to get even further apart at the end of the summer.”

“I’m leaving in July.”

They all turned to look at Ben, who was staring  miserably  down at his sneakers. The air became  unnaturally  stuffy and bleak. Ben's red-rimmed eyelids stood out against the faint dark circles under his eyes. He'd been holding it back for a while. Mike  silently  pulled him into a side hug,  affectionately  rubbing his shoulder.

“I, uh, got into Rice.” He said.

“I’m so proud of you, Ben!” Beverly smiled through her tears. She wiped her eyes and clapped a little. Eddie's inhaler hissed next to her. “You're going to do so well.”

Richie gave him a shaky little smile. “Kudos, Ben.”

“That’s in Texas, right?” Bill saw Ben during senior year _maybe_ four times. It felt like he'd wasted so much time obsessing over his own shit that he'd missed everything. Ben nodded.

“High school really does suck.” Eddie said tightly around the medicine in his throat.

“We still have some time left,” Mike was still holding Ben. “Straight cliché, but we should find a way to make the most of it.”

Richie rested his cheek against  Beverly ’s thigh. His voice seemed to waver while she threaded her fingers through his dark hair. “We wanna do something with you. Everybody together.”

“We could hit prom for a sec,” Stan said offhandedly.

She pulled a face. “Why? It’s like an orgy of dipshits.”

“Could be interesting,” Bill added.

“Mike has to go anyway.”

“Why do you want me to go to _senior prom_ so badly? You need a date or something?”

It may have been his lack of sleep but Bill replied with, “No, but you do.” She looked at him like he was nuts. “We were kinda talking about it earlier.” Beverly looked around at the others, expression somewhere between intrigued and appalled. “Come on, why the fuck not?”

“Bill. You know why proms exist, right? Nuclear fucking family! People would _freak_.” Beverly’s cheeks were turning pink.

He half-grinned. “So? Let ‘em.”

Beverly leaned her chin against her palm, her other hand still petting Richie. “This is so wacked...how would it even work? All of you with...?”

Stan chuckled. “Um, have we met? I’ll take care of logistics, don't worry."

She smiled softly, conceding with a nod of her head.

“Jesus...all of us?” Eddie mumbled in disbelief. “Together?”

Bill gave him a sly look. “Did I stutter?”

"Oh-HO! Wacka, wacka, my good man!" Richie whooped, sitting up. “Yeah, fuck it. Let's go to their stupid prom. Thanks for treating us like shit, it's been real.” He raised both hands in a flip-off gesture with an  oddly  winning smile.

“A bunch of guys, though?”

“How long have we been _fags_ , Eddie?”

He looked up at Stan. “Oh.”

“There you go.”

Beverly  shrugged. “I wouldn't  be seen  any different, I guess.”

"And you'll be with us. No one's gonna fuck with you." Ben said mildly. There was an aggressive undertone in his voice, like he was daring the universe to fucking try it.

Everyone looked at her expectantly. She heaved a defeated sigh, enduring yet another batshit idea. “Alright, fine.”

None of them wanted to go to prom, but Mike felt relieved and the others were  just  glad to do anything together. Despite the circumstances, The Losers Club felt closer than they had all year.

“Two things, though. If the music sucks, we cut out. If that happens, we need a plan B.”

“Done.” Bill smiled.

 


	2. When we were close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads have some Quality Bonding Time and Beverly is confronted with a cute dress.
> 
> Eddie does some strugglin'.

 

 

**1**

_“And you waited until today_ why?”

_“Because I'm not very responsible sometimes, Staniel.”_

_As much as he wanted to push Richie Tozier right back out of his bedroom window, Stan resisted. He exercised some self-control and took a deep breath through his nose. Richie_ still _assumed he would do nice things for him knowing these random_ "bail me out, dude" _pleas were both annoying and stressful. But he helped him anyway. He always did. They’d been friends for a long time and, as hard as it was to admit, he was family. Stan was a resourceful and generous, and Richie would always have his back, no questions asked. The give and take was second nature. Sure, the two of them argued and actually threw down a few times, but that was part of why they were still friends. Their surface back and forth was a negotiation. Love wasn't always pretty, nor was communication, but they loved each other enough to be honest._

_They just happened to be a couple of stubborn, headstrong idiots._

_“You're seriously lucky my mom doesn't throw my old clothes away._ ”

_“Please don't put me in a sweater vest, I'll kill myself.”_

_“Can't have that.” Stanley muttered, dragging Richie out of his room._

_"Okay, maybe for our Christmas card."_

_"I'm not even touching that one."_

 

They trudged upstairs to the Uris’ haunted attic. The stairway was narrow and the room itself had an ominous feel like the rest of their cavernous house. Richie, a legal adult, was still majorly crept out going up there, but Stan seemed perfectly calm. He was either used to it or he got really good at pretending he didn't give a shit about dark corners and cobwebs. But Richie understood why Stan was a jumpy kid. He also understood, in retrospect, why he had so many sleepovers. Sleepovers at the House of Uris were terrifying without more than three people. Going anywhere in that house at night was nerve-wracking for any eight year old - except for Bill, the unshakable bastard.

A floorboard creaked under Richie's foot and he jumped a little. He quickly looked over his shoulder, just in case he was about to be murdered by the Uris' attic-dwelling haints. _Wait, what were the Jewish ghosts Stan told us about? Dybbuks? Oh god._

“Alright, let's get you looking respectable.” He paused to make a very exaggerated skeptical face - still lovely even though he was totally dissing him. It was so, so cruel.

He countered with a dramatic, airy voice. “Make me pretty, Staniel.”

The voice went ignored. Stan unzipped a covered storage rack and began rummaging. It was like a library of neatly pressed and carefully hung clothing. At the very least, whatever Richie borrowed wouldn't be dusty.

While Stan flipped hangers left and right, Richie’s boredom hit its threshold. He started wading into the surrounding rows of tall, stacked boxes, dybbuks be damned. _Fuck, I'm gonna regret that one_.

It was a textbook spooky attic: standard round window, standard dusty sunbeam, plenty of naked rafters and, once again, _dark corners_.

Richie bumped into a coat rack and scared the shit out of himself, stifling a yelp. _Yowza! Now who's jumpy?_

Just then, a little yellow rug in the corner caught his eye. It struck him as familiar, but he had no idea why. Richie got down on all fours and crawled onto the short, fuzzy wool. There was a little battery-operated radio lying face down on the rug. It looked old; someone had taken the batteries out and the antenna had snapped off. He also noticed a ton of crazy, faded crayon marks on the low wooden beams above it. They could have been badly drawn lizards or cats - it was too dark to tell. _What, did Stan hide up here making a fucking mess and jamming out to Duran Duran or something?_

It reminded him of how much more fun it was to do things that would definitely get him in trouble (without getting caught, of course). Richie wondered if Stan's mom ever got mad about it or why he would be coloring up in the nightmare attic at all. There was no way he would've played up there by himself. _Did he ever take me up here with him?_

“Tozier.”

He scrambled out of the weird little corner and realized he'd wandered through a maze of boxes. The attic was bigger than it looked.

Stan was tapping his foot when he came back into view. “What were you doing back there?”

“I think I went to Narnia.”

“Sure you did.” Stan dropped a large pile of clothes into his arms. “There's some stuff there that might fit you. We've got an hour before Eddie and Ben should be getting here. Don't take too long.”

Leave it to his six foot tall Jewish friend he'd tormented since kindergarten to hook him up. Stan was probably born in a tiny suit all rarin’ to be an adult so his refined taste wasn't surprising at all. It was the most flattering thing Richie had ever worn. The pants were a little snug in the waist, but everything else came together perfectly. It was a basic slate blue two-piece number, but he actually looked put together for once in his life and he was _loving it_. There was even a neat little glinting effect on the suiting fabric in the right lighting. He dressed, then stood wiggling his ass around in front of a mirror while Stan futzed with his hair in the bathroom.

Richie woke up late that morning and showed up at Stan's house a solid 45 minutes past when he said he would. It was like he was born to annoy Stanley Uris, but they'd been that way forever. He remembered Stan wearing a little pair of overalls, sorting Legos by size and color. For some reason, not that he ever had a reason for a lot of the shit he did, Richie dumped the entire Lego bin on top of his neat piles. It made him cry - a lot. How they became friends after that was a complete mystery to Richie. He remembered that he hugged him and told him he liked his clothes and his shoes and his hair and also he loved dinosaurs, _do you like dinosaurs, too_?

“Are you done yet?”

“Putting clothes on? Yes. Fawning over myself? Noooo.” Stan poked his head out of the bathroom and actually raised his eyebrows. “Like whatcha see, baby?”

He snorted. “C'mere, lemme try to fix that disaster on your head.”

Richie sashayed into the bathroom and hopped up to sit on the counter. He spread his legs provocatively. “Be gentle.”

Stan spritzed him in the face with a spray bottle.

It only took him a few minutes to tame Richie's bedhead but their faces were inches apart the whole time. Stan told him to quit staring at him, but they were _inches apart_ and that was a seriously unrealistic expectation. Richie liked looking at him. And he smelled really good. He was also really pretty when he slept - just as pretty as Beverly. His lips would probably feel soft like hers if he kissed him. Stan turned his head for just a moment and Richie stared at the line of his throat, having the exact same thought.

The harsh bathroom light caught a strange line of scars trailing from his temple to just beneath his jaw. They were only visible if one were to look for them, but the rest of Stan took priority in Richie's humble opinion. No one remembered how Stan got them - Stan least of all. The longer he stared, the harder it was to look away. The scars dredged up a bad feeling, something awful down deep in his memories. They had a distinct pattern, like a dashed line - it couldn't have been a freak accident. They were too deliberate. A horrible feeling smacked into Richie's gut. He was terrified of losing him. Stan was his first real friend, he'd always been there and if he was suddenly gone-

Richie grabbed Stan's shoulders on impulse, pulling him tight to his chest.

“Richie-”

“You know we'd never leave you, right?”

“What?"

 _What am I saying? What the fuck is this?_ Tears sprung into his eyes. “I...I love you, Stan.” Richie Tozier said the four-letter "l-word" about as often as he studied for a test.

Stan paused, searching his face very carefully. “I know.” He patted Richie's arm. “Please don't fuck up my hair.”

He drew his arms back, now aware of how bizarre his outburst has been. “Sorry.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?” Richie swallowed and nodded. His lips quirked into a fond smile. “Geez, you’re all over the place today - Oh, I’ve got one last thing.” His fingers deftly worked at Richie's shirt buttons. “First three open looks way better if you're skipping ties.”

“Thanks, dude.”

“Ah huh. Owesies.”

“Goddamnit.”

 

 

**2**

Over the past few weeks, especially since that Monday on the field, Bill began to feel a deep, horrible pit in his stomach. It was widening day by day and he knew there was something far more important to worry about than prom, or even high school graduation. That pervasive feeling followed him everywhere, draining his energy like a parasitic ghost. Calling it a ghost may have been a little dramatic, but Bill knew that something was wrong with him and it wasn't a simple case of teenage angst.

He was wide open when he dreamed at night. He thought of the deep, dark tunnels he traversed while he slept. It started when he was 13, when summer had ended. Bill probably could have drawn a map after five straight years of the same damn dream almost every night. It was as if he was there to memorize them. The way the air felt and the sounds of his own footsteps in the dark stayed with him at all times. But he wasn’t always alone down there in the dark. Sometimes he felt connected to another presence. It came and went like a flickering light bulb, but it was there for a reason. He was sure there was some significance to his dreams. They were too vivid, too real. The most unsettling thing was a faint, warbled voice that whispered _"yellow jacket"_. It seemed to come from inside of him - or next to him. What it meant wasn't clear to him, but those words made him angry and helped drive him forward. Bill knew he was looking for something.

He wrote about everything while he was awake. The details branched off into ideas, the ideas became theories, and, even though it made no sense to anyone but him, it was becoming _something_. There was a purpose for all of it. Fear was irrelevant. His dreams were a well he could draw from, a perfect contrast to that barren well they gathered around years ago, feeling decades beyond childhood where they stood. He felt that way now, as if he was back with them, gazing down into the dark.

His blue eyes refocused on Mike Hanlon screwing in a light bulb a good 15 feet above him. He smiled, steadying the aluminum folding ladder while he climbed down. “How many Mikes does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“I mean, one.” He hopped off the bottom rung and patted Bill’s shoulder. “C’mon, almost done.”

They hefted and carried the huge ladder between them. Bill randomly remembered Mike’s grandpa. He had a rickety old wooden ladder and one day sent skinny, lanky Bill scampering up to paint a shim under the barn roof. It was terrifying, but he liked to help out because the old man was nice. He was also very tall like his grandson, and a little intimidating, so Bill never said anything to him other than _"_ yes, sir _"_. Bill and Mike were the same height until 10th grade, then he just ended up 6'2" like it was nothing. Stan and Ben of all people followed him as far as 6 feet. Bill wasn't the shortest, but it was definitely weird to be shorter than three of his friends. The nickname they all gave Bill was never really about his height, though.

Mike glanced back at him. “Thanks again for helping out, man.”

“No prob.” They opened and steadied the ladder between them.

“I know you’ve been busy with college stuff.”

Bill groaned softly, feeling his overtired brain begging him to drop right into a nap. “Nah, I’m good on that. Just...fuck it at this point. Those applications’ll drive you insane.”

Mike smiled wryly and ascended the ladder once more. He was a straight A student, already studying at college level material. He was easily the most suited for college of the seven, but Mike was stuck in an unusual rut. He lived alone in a small efficiency, worked a shitty night job to make ends meet and filled in the gaps at school. There was no way he’d be able to move or pay for college as things were. It wasn't fair and it drove Bill up a wall. Mike knew damn well there were full-ride scholarships for athletes, but he refused to discuss leaving. He wasn't usually stubborn but there were a few exceptions. The day they became friends, Mike was jumped and attacked down by the creek, three against one, but he never cried for help _-_ not once _._ Broaching the subject of Mike underselling himself and making unnecessary sacrifices was pointless. Yet Bill wanted to at least try to talk him out of staying behind in Derry because he didn't have to, he wasn't completely out of options. He could take his life further and experience the success he deserved - in Bill's humble opinion.

“I am so done with this wackness.” Mike stepped off the bottom rung. “Wanna go make some flowers out of tissue paper?” Bill stared at him and he cracked up. “Seriously, though, let’s go chill for a minute.”

Bill didn’t feel like he’d done much to help, but it was better than staying in the gym. One of the committee members was having a loud, melodramatic argument with the art kids about decorations. He wasn't about to stick around for a free migraine. “Good plan."

They heaved the gymnasium doors open and returned to reality. They each took a seat on the concrete steps overlooking the football field. The sun was already shifting toward late afternoon. Neither of them knew how long they had been in the gym, but a quick whiff of their pits gave them a fairly good idea.

“I wish I could get kicked off the committee for B.O.”

“Imagine if we just stayed like this and the others were like, perfectly dressed.”

“Smelling like apples and flowers and stuff.” Mike squinted, leaning back on his elbows.

They exchanged weak, giggly smiles. Bill couldn’t remember the last time they'd hung out like they did that afternoon. He felt like he blew it - blew everything.

“Oh, if we cut out soon we can go use the locker room to rinse off and change.” Mike said.

“That’s smart. Good thing I packed everything into my grandad car.” Mike stifled a laugh at that. The inherited Buick was both a blessing and a curse. Lots people fit, lots of junk fit, it didn’t break down randomly, but it was hideous. _Hideous but full of memories_.

Stan fell asleep in that big, embarrassing car on the way back from the beach last summer. Ever the shit-starter, Richie started taking loud Polaroids of Stan’s face while he slept. A battle broke out. Beverly nailed him with a wadded up napkin that had her gum in it, then one of her flip-flops, but he kept snapping photos. He got some good pictures of her, too.

Two of those photos were still taped in the back of Bill's journal. Both were very personal and he often looked back at them while he was writing or sketching. Stan was resting on his folded arm, which was sticking halfway out the window. He forgot about everything that happened when they were 13 somehow. Stan had forgotten where his bite marks came from before they had fully healed. Stan's life wasn't perfect, but Bill was glad there was some degree of peace for him. Beverly forgot, too. Her picture of Beverly was a perfect foil to Stan's. She was swatting at Richie over the back of her seat with her lips shut tight, fighting back a smile. After she moved back to Derry, there was a liveliness Bill hadn't seen in her since they were little kids. She slowly let each of them in and Bill watched everyone grow closer. The connections between them became more fluid. It wasn’t "Bill and Beverly" anymore, still trying to solve the conundrum of love and friendship, it was just a big group of losers. The conundrum stopped mattering.

“I really hope things go well - for them, I mean.” Mike’s voice was quiet.

Most of the others didn’t remember much of anything that happened in 1989. Mike remembered. They only spoke about it briefly a handful of times, but he remembered the clown better than Bill did. Both suspected that Ben knew more than he let on - he never slept well and wouldn’t go to certain parts of town. He also never used the library alone. Stan, however, could look at paintings and sculptures of women. Beverly no longer flinched at the sight of blood. Eddie cooled off on his germ aversion a bit - and none of them, especially Richie, gave a shit about clowns or monsters. Based on his observations, four of their group had forgotten completely. Bill was glad for it, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous.

“Sometimes I don’t feel connected to reality anymore.” Bill said.

“Like how?”

“Not just remembering, but...do you see things differently sometimes?”

Mike looked down at his scuffed jeans, drawing his eyebrows together. “I do, Bill.” He was then an adult, worn-down and aged by guilt and stress. There was something very set about that vision and Bill felt like crying for him. The inevitable end of their teenage years constantly dangled above them. He felt completely helpless, beginning to mourn their breaking up. “I…” He pressed his lips together. “I feel like I need to keep it to myself, that’s why I’m...”

_Isolated._

“Mike,” Bill cleared his throat. What he wanted to say felt like a lead weight on his tongue. “We’re the ones who kept the muh-m...memories. There might be a reason for that.”

“Maybe. Maybe there is.” It was possible that Mike had been down in the dark, too - down there with him when he dreamed about it over and over.

On the surface of Derry, past the little curtain of normalcy, there was another reality. Perhaps that was why the seven of them were so bonded; they had seen beyond the lie. Bill just never forgot to unshoulder the burden of looking for some horrible answer. There was something unthinkable hiding down at the bottom of the pitch dark hole. They knew it as kids. They knew getting lost would get them killed because something was there ready to take them.

But if it was dead, why did they still remember it? Bill knew the answer. He wished he didn't. He wished Mike and Ben didn't, either.

 

 

 

**3**

Eddie tossed his vest over the back of his seat, hit the ignition on his Honda, and took off toward Ben's house.

He just had to stage a jailbreak to leave his house. It didn't involve a shit tunnel and a Rita Hayworth poster, but it was still impressive. Once again, his mom was up his ass about going out. She was a professional, hitting him with her usual one-two: guilting and prying. Some of it was tears - the _"why are you leaving me, Eddie-bear? Why do you hate me?"_ jazz.

Having a mother who hated his friends was another snag in his desperate struggle for a normal young life. She didn't like Richie (or _Mike_ for some ungodly reason) but Sonia Kaspbrak _hated_ Beverly. Most of what she said was a thinly veiled _"stay away from Beverly Marsh, she's a dirty slut"_. It was about as broken-record as the medicine reminders. The sex shaming began the second she found out Beverly moved back to Derry. For some reason, his mother thought ranting about seeing her in a miniskirt would scare him celibate. _And, oh, she was handling bananas in the produce aisle last Wednesday - boy, am I turned off!_

When he convinced her he going stag and hanging out with Ben, she switched gears. The new hazard was "speed freaks" hopped up on angel dust, ready to molest him, et cetera, ad nauseum, _please just let me have a life for the love of god_. It came to ghosting out the back door while his mom went for her collection of anti-drug pamphlets. Eddie was taking his cute, fragile little ass to prom. He was going to hang out with his friends and have a slew of panic attacks and his ma couldn't do anything about it.

Some sort of divine intervention happened to Eddie Kaspbrak at 15 when he realized he was a good driver. Getting behind the wheel for the first time was pure adrenaline for him. It wasn’t about speed or risks, it was _independence_. Eddie assumed compulsion to work every paying job he could since middle school was fate. His ticket to freedom was a little 2-door Honda Civic sitting on his neighbor's lawn. If his mom pushed him to a breaking point, as she often did, he could just go park on a hill outside of town with a Slurpee. There was no stress - only him, the sunset, and a few wild fantasies of running off.

The neighborhoods were bathed in the oranges and yellows of late afternoon. It was almost summer. Trees were lush with deep green leaves and the wind rippled between them every so often. Eddie relaxed into his seat, glancing at yards and sidewalks. He remembered learning to ride his bike, skinning his knees and falling into bushes and mailboxes. Bill was there sometimes. He'd slow down on his bike and help Eddie to his feet.

Bicycles fucked him over enough that he felt no romantic nostalgia for zipping down the street on cool summer nights or whatever. Too many things went wrong. Over the years, he had experienced as many disasters as pills he’d swallowed. Eddie was convinced that something terrible would happen that night. There was a goddamn bouquet of options: getting his ass kicked, getting pantsed, or maybe another broken bone.

“When _was_ that?” Eddie thought aloud. All he knew was he broke his arm when he was 13 and it ached on rainy days.

Eddie parked along the sidewalk and did three short raps against his car horn. Ben sat up from his lounging position on the steps of his porch. He and his mom shared a tiny two bedroom house so he always waited outside whenever someone was giving him a lift. He rarely had anyone over (his house was majorly cramped) and he had a driver's license with nothing to drive. It was shitty, but Ben endured it. He'd be on his own in a less than a month, anyway.

Ben looked like he'd been napping. He rubbed at his eyes, yawning while he walked over. Even though he was tall and well-built (and capable of taking a guy down in two hits) he could be pretty damn cute. After joining track, Eddie started looking at him a lot, noticing his subtle mannerisms and facial expressions. Ben was sleepy until noon most days, kind to just about anyone, always attentive when someone else was talking. Eddie _really_ liked his tired smile and the way he rubbed his short hair when something bugged him.

He shook his head clear and leaned over to unlock the passenger door. Ben climbed in, arranging his long legs on the floor in front of him. He was sporting a basic dress shirt and some black suit pants. It wasn't eye-catching, but they clung to his frame very nicely. Where Richie dressed loudly, Ben dressed plainly - aside from the broken-in cowboy boots he wore every now and then. He gave Eddie a lazy wave as they pulled back onto the road.

“Were you napping, Ben?”

He laughed softly - Eddie liked that, too. “Bill kidnapped me earlier. We had to go make sure-” he paused to yawn again, “the quarry's still got a good path and all the water didn't dry up. Surprise. It didn't.”

“That's our plan B?”

“Yup.”

They only made a handful of forays to the quarry in the summers during high school, rarely all together. Since they were older and didn't get shouted at for going out after dark (except for Eddie, of course), they usually met up at night. It was a good place to sneak alcohol. The sky was also totally clear that far out of town, so they randomly started a tradition of drunk astronomy. Eddie actually had his first drop of alcohol at the quarry when he turned 16. He ended up beyond wasted and couldn't stop telling everyone how much he loved them. And _exactly why_ he loved them. According to the others, he also did a sprinting jump off the cliff in his socks and undies. He was a mess the next morning and didn't come out of his hangover sleep until about 7 pm the next day. _Woof._

“ _You’re_ lookin' awfully suave over there,” Ben said.

A hot blush crept up Eddie's neck. He managed an embarrassed little noise in reply. “These are the only dress clothes I own.” Ben smiled lazily and Eddie stared hard at the road.

“Hey, why change it if it works, right?”

“Guess so.”

They didn’t say much for a while. It was bad. Eddie was slipping right back into his own head. At first he was thinking about how he made things awkward with Ben but that got too embarrassing, so he went back to flipping through his Rolodex of potential disasters. He landed on the shitshow with the track team. The story was Eddie got kicked off the track team for giving someone a hand job in the locker room. The other popular theory was that he gave _himself_ a hand job in the locker room, which was impossible since he was both a borderline never-nude and too paranoid to even jerk off at home. _Thank god I got my license when I did._ Either way, guys still called him a fag and beat him up even though no one could tell him who got the hand job. Because that person didn't fucking exist. And no one in the entire fucking school would walk around like, " _yeah, I got a reach-around from Eddie Kaspbrak - he's five foot four and can't breathe if you startle him."_

His throat began to close up.

"Hey, Ben, can you hand me the inhaler in my glove box?" He placed it in Eddie's hand. He honked in a full dose, coughing after a moment and passing it back very business-like. "Thanks."

Eddie was focused on the road ahead, but he could still feel Ben's eyes on him. "You okay?" He nodded curtly. Ben quietly leaned back in his seat. "If you wanna talk, I'm right here. No pressure."

"Thanks."

He ran out of things to say after that. It was the second time that evening he'd struck out on holding a conversation - with _Ben_ of all people. They used to drive back and forth from school together all the time and they talked about everything. _Yeah, everything but hand jobs_.

“I quit.”

Eddie glanced over at him for a second. “Huh?”

“Track. I quit.” He said it like it was no big deal.

But it was an _extremely_ big deal.

“What! Why? They’re gonna, like, erase everything you did for the team! I mean - how many fucking records did you break, Ben?” He shrugged.

Ben's lax attitude toward the subject made no sense. Before Eddie miraculously made the team, even as far back as freshman year, he watched Ben run. At first, Eddie hung around the track because he didn't want to go home and no one else stayed after school. He realized he wasn't just watching his friend run every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Ben acted more than he talked. Over countless afternoons, in all types of weather, Eddie came to know him in a way he never expected. Ben had always been quiet, usually staying in the background while people spoke over him unless he was geeking out. But that wasn't really Ben. He was the type of person you had to watch to understand. Eddie watched him grow up and change, but he was still the same Ben they met during the summer in ‘89. Jittery, sharp-tongued, 13 year old Eddie fussed over his wounds and Ben didn’t complain once.

He never would have started running if it weren't for Ben.

“You were really good, Eddie,” Ben said.

The idea that Ben quit because of what happened to him made him feel immensely conflicted. There was still guilt, and feeling like he wasn't worth that type of gesture, but Eddie also knew he was loved. He kept thinking about the chubby new kid who stumbled into their lives. They had no idea of what to do with him at first, but it came together, it made sense. Ben had no friends and the old little group lacked cohesion. Bill was angry, Richie was insecure, Stan was painfully high-strung, and Eddie was mothering all three of them. They needed someone kind and resilient like Ben. It wasn't until all seven of them were together that they started to understand who they were.

“You didn’t…” Ben swiped a hand through his hair and smiled a little. Eddie wanted to cry but he sucked it up. “I still think you did something stupid, but...” He took a breath and turned an embarrassing shade of red. “I’m really glad we met.”

Ben covered his face a little, sheepishly staring down at his boots.

They pulled up to Stan’s house and Eddie hastily put the car in park. He nearly floored his gas pedal jumping out of his seat. Stan was yelling through his front door with his arms crossed tight across his chest. Ben and Eddie didn't register how mad he looked, they were too busy trying to pick their jaws off the floor.

Stan favored oversize knit sweaters and loose pants, but he made it work. He could make anything work. It felt kind of weird to admit, but Eddie thought he looked like a model. Eddie and Ben came to a silent agreement: that midnight blue suit did him every favor in the history of favors. He definitely wasn't a twiggy, uptight child anymore.

“I feel inadequate,” Ben whispered.

“Me too.”

Ben rolled the window down and leaned out. “Please don't freak out, but I'm gonna look like complete shit next to you.”

Stan propped an elbow against the roof of the car, peering in at them - even his _hair_ was perfect. Eddie felt like a gushing, squealy sophomore girl - the gaggle that went nuts if Stan so much as sneezed. “Please. Far from it.” He half-smiled and Eddie legitimately worried he _was_ becoming a blubbering teenage girl. “Remind me to show you an easier way to fold your sleeves up, Ben.” He suddenly turned around. “LET'S _GO_ , RICHIE.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Why’s he at your place?”

As if on cue, Richie came strutting flamboyantly down the sidewalk. Richie Tozier had his moments but, histrionics aside, he was surprisingly attractive in grey-blue. Cool tones did more for him than orange or bright green or whatever the fuck else he dressed himself in. Eddie and Ben just wore black and white like a couple of waiters. It looked like a weird double date.

"Can I do the little jacket over the shoulder thing real quick?"

Stan rolled his eyes, smiling a little. “Get in, Tyra. Give someone else a chance to knock us out.”

Richie took Stan’s place at the window instead. “You strappin' young bucks lookin’ for a good time?”

Ben pretended to consider it while Eddie made a gagging noise. Trashmouth was moonlighting as a very handsome young adult, but he’d never change. That was fine with Eddie because he'd already spent years learning to tolerate that dipshit and he wasn't about to start all over again. Still, he couldn't stop himself from peeking up at the two of them in his rear view mirror every few minutes.

 

 

 

**4**

“Did you go to your senior prom, Beth?”

She combed a handful of Beverly’s red curls away from her face. “Sure did.”

“Did it suck?”

“Oh, completely.” Beth paused to tuck her own hair behind her ear - light and gingery. It was just like Beverly's mother's hair in the photographs she kept at the bottom of her jewelry box. “I don’t regret it, though. And honestly,” she slid a bobby pin into place, “I wouldn’t give it a second thought if I were you.”

That was probably the last thing Beverly was about to do. She'd been giving it nothing but second thoughts since she agreed to go with everyone. “Tch. Yeah, no problem.”

“You’re going with six guys, Bevs.”

She scoffed. “It's like a statement, though! It’s different.” Beth muttered an _uh-huh_. "And we're friends, so...whatever."

Beverly's aunt threw her head back in a cackle. “That is complete horseshit. You think I don’t know that Tozier kid’s hoppin' through your window every chance he gets? And _boy_ , you should see how Ben looks at you sometimes, wow -”

“Oh my god, BETH!” Beverly shot to her feet and dashed into her closet, blushing furiously. “I’m just gonna find my shoes and go die in the woods, I can’t do this.”

Beth giggled, turning on her stool to face her. “I’m not judging you, I just have really good hearing and _neither of them are very subtle_.” The only reply was a muffled whine from the closet. “Here, come on, lemme show you what I did to your dress!”

“Did you add a hidden pocket for weed?”

“Shit. Knew I forgot something.” She snorted and disappeared down the hallway.

Beverly sighed, finally unearthing the shoes she was looking for. Saddle shoes were so fifties. But they fit her perfectly and had enough of a heel that she could at least reach Mike’s elbow. It also helped that they matched her dress. She blinked out of the thought, realizing she was fretting over pumps and frilly dresses. Beverly Marsh would rather whip a used tampon at Gretta Keene than think about _formal wear_. “Good god, what have I become?”

“Okay, check it out.” Beth walked in and held out a lacy little sundress with a sweetheart neckline. It wasn't old school like her shoes, but it felt like some kind ancient feminine relic and it kind of freaked her out. “Eh?”

“That looks nothing like it did two days ago - I mean, that's a good thing, but...holy shit.”

She hummed a little. “I know. There's a reason I always cry at the end of _Pretty In Pink_ . And it's never a happy cry.” She closed an eye and held the dress up to Beverly from a distance like a painter choosing the perfect angle. “ _This_ , however...okay, put it on! Model my garment, damnit.”

The pale blue fabric and the lace pattern made it look soft and pleasant - innocent, even. If Beverly had been leggier, it might have looked like a négligée. Luckily, it came to mid-thigh so she had no complaints other than probably not being able to sit down without flashing people all evening. _Of course. I'm Beverly Marsh. That's what I do._ But it slipped easily over her head and she could zip it herself. _Bonus_.

Beverly peeked halfway at herself in the mirror. “Oh god, my bosoms." Her aunt cracked up, insisting that part wasn't on purpose. "Beth, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be! I’m a genius,” she said.

She couldn’t argue with that. Beverly shuffled in front of her mirror, then gasped softly. “I...don’t look like a Stepford Wife.”

“Who the _fuck_ do you think I am?”

“Sorry! I’m just…dresses...” She turned to Beth, unable to mask how impressed she was. “Will you teach me how to sew?”

The doorbell buzzed.

They exchanged urgent looks.

“I’ll distract them!” Beth dashed out of her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Beth’s enthusiasm followed her out of the room. Beverly let out a brief nervous cry. It felt like someone took a huge pessimistic dump on her good mood. She looked cute - strikingly, uncharacteristically cute - and it terrified her. Beverly Marsh dressed tough, practical, maybe a little sexy depending on who you asked, but the powder blue sundress was soft and feminine and _weak_ . It was so far out of her comfort zone that she was going to need a fucking map to find her way back to _cut-offs_ . She would get called a slut no matter what she wore so Beverly wore whatever she liked. She didn't like _lace_ . Men weren't scared of _lace_ . For once in her life, _men_ were scared of her. She spent so many years building a leather, slashed up denim wall around her body and it all came crashing down with one little blue dress.

Beth give a low whistle out in the living room. “Holy shit. Bevs wasn't kidding.”

Beverly repeated her nervous cry, quieter this time. She tossed a t-shirt and shorts into her tiny backpack ( _left over from elementary school - so retro_ ) and hoped to god Bill had a good plan B.

 

 

 

 

**5**

Eddie looked up at the stucco porch ceiling attempting to hide his flushed cheeks. Ben had cursed him that day on the bleachers. The thought of seeing Beverly in a pretty dress was about to send him into the mother of all asthma attacks. His mental list of disasters was growing by the second. _Add: puking on myself in front of Beverly, or puking ON Beverly - aw, shit._ It looked like Ben was thinking the same thing. Stan and Richie, however, showed no signs of nervousness. Honestly, who would be nervous if they looked that good?

“Beth!” The screen door swung open and Richie sidled up to Beverly's aunt, snaking an arm around her shoulders. “Where ya been, sweetheart, ya seein' other dudes? I can run circles around 'em, baby, c'mon, gimme a name.” Eddie couldn't tell if he was trying to sound like John Travolta or the Cowardly Lion.

“Here, come in for a sec.” She smiled at the other three before shrugging Richie off. “Stay outside, Richard,” she said flatly.

He pouted. “But-” The door slammed in his face. "But I -"

Beth gave each of them a once-over. “Jesus, you all look so mature for your age. None of my graduating class had their shit _this_ together.” Richie yowled miserably against the screen door like a stray cat while she carried on. “Oh! You must be Stan and Eddie! I can’t believe I’ve never met you guys. Bevs talks about you all the time.”

“Nice to meet you,” Stanley, ever gracious, shook her hand - with _both_ hands, Eddie noted. “A bit late but we’re really glad she has you. And, uh," he smiled a little. "Thanks for bringing her back.”

Beth blushed and Eddie realized he had nothing remotely poignant to say to her. He waved, offering an awkward _"hello"_ before slinking away.

Their house was quaint. There were lots of plants and band posters and they even had one of those window prisms that made rainbows whenever the sun hit it. It even smelled like some type of incense. He had never been in a "hippie house" before. Eddie thought for a moment about the one time he went in Beverly’s house when they were 13. Before that day, he never understood why she looked so sad whenever they all left the Barrens and split up to go home. He definitely didn't understand how she survived living there as long as she did. It was a relief to see her in a happier place now, going home to a kind person.

The only reason Beverly was able to come back to Derry was because of Beth. It made no sense to him at first. Adults hated her, most of the kids at school hated her, her dad had been murdered, for fuck's sake. He was a terrible person, but that was something Eddie would anything to forget. But, as Richie _so kindly_ explained to him: _"she came back to be with us, numb nuts!"_

“Guys at my senior prom looked so goofy - we basically _had_ to be high to dance with any of them.”

“Did anyone know you were high?” Ben asked.

“It was the early seventies, Ben, everyone was high,” Stan replied.

“Wow, were you _there?_ How old are you?” Beth said.

“Oh, I can just tell from the music.”

A cursory look around made it clear that Beth was a photographer. Eddie wasn't too familiar with 1970's music artists but it was obvious that she went to a ton of punk shows back in the day. He kind of picked up that she was the black sheep of her family. There weren't any pictures of relatives around, for one thing. _Definitely not_ , he thought, goggling at some of the pictures on the wall. There was some wild stuff. There were some black and white photos of women flashing their tits at cameras arranged in an artful collage. Some guy on a stage was dumping beer all over himself in the background of one. There was also a lady painted up like a corpse attacking a drum set with a mic stand. There were pictures of _chicks_ making out, _guys_ making out - right above the couch, even!

“Oh my god. I can't believe you guys.”

Eddie whipped around and caught a glimpse of the pretty dress. He averted his gaze right away. He felt his guts clench up into a giant knotted wad. _Please, please don't let me puke all over Beth's rug, I just met her, oh god_. Beverly matched Stan and Richie perfectly - he wouldn’t be able to handle any of it. Eddie just stared down at his dress shoes.

People treated her like she was filth, but Beverly was pure to him in a lot of ways. He felt clear and honest feelings whenever he was with her. She was kind, he felt safe with her, and she could even introduce him to new things without overwhelming him. That wasn't always the case, though. Back when they first met, he believed the rumors. She made him uncomfortable. But Eddie was curious. He felt compelled to figure her out - everything that created the "dirty girl" his ma warned him about. It didn't take him long to connect the pieces of Beverly Marsh. She wasn't dirty at all.

They were very close for a short time. Eddie and Beverly were on the same wavelength, wide open to each other's feelings. Both placed the needs of others before their own, and always read others before they acted. They were also sensitive and quick to anger, and this was what connected them the most. They developed a strange habit of holding hands when they were upset. It may have been their way of sharing the emotional load. Maybe it was just childish instinct. It didn't matter. Beverly stopped doing it shortly after they started high school. She was back to being the dirty girl.

Richie suddenly burst into the house and scooped Beverly up, kissing her cheeks like a crazy person. It looked like they were just married - _yikes, what an idea_. She told him he looked very handsome but she was about to headbutt him and Eddie kind of hoped she would. His over-the-top display of affection made her dress ride up and Eddie was at just the right angle to catch an eyeful of her white cotton panties. He needed to get out of this stupid, sexy house.

“Eds, get the fuck over here and tell Bevvie she’s pretty!”

Beverly pinched his cheek. “If you’re going to do this all night, Richie, I swear -”

Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is why I put you on the porch, kid.”

Stan grabbed the back of Richie’s jacket and yoinked him away from her. “He’s going right back out.” He held him _very_ firmly by the shoulders. “And right back into the car unless he wants to be _stuffed into the trunk_.”

“Thanks, Beth.” Ben kissed her cheek. “Sorry about all of the yelling.” His eyes snapped back to Beverly like like she was a magnet. Eddie felt bad for him. Or maybe he just felt for him. _Oh, jesus, here comes the ralph_.

“Pfft, nah. You guys have fun!” She waved them out. “Oh and have her back whenever she wants. She’s 18 and I trust her to make good choices.” Beth did finger pistols and shot a wink at Beverly who made an embarrassed, guttural noise.

“SHE’S GOING TO GET ME PREGNANT!” Richie screeched from the sidewalk. Stan slapped him upside the head. It was funnier than usual since they both looked like lawyers.

Beverly took Eddie’s hand. He jumped a little at her touch and realized he was still standing in the middle of the living room, gawking. Her hands felt a little shaky, he noticed with some surprise. It felt so different to him after years of no contact beyond a brief pat.

“Are you as freaked out as I am?” She murmured.

He wanted to agree but only succeeded in staring down at her white saddle heels. “You _do_ look really pretty, I was just-”

“It’s okay.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

They reached the end of the sidewalk and watched the chaos. Ben was trying to mediate the slapstick routine that had developed between Stan and Richie. Another minute and his car would be completely dismantled.

“Hey, Bevvie?”

“Yeah?”

“Think your aunt would adopt me?”

She hugged his shoulders, laughing. His eyes, damn them, dodged down to her chest and he regretted it immediately. “I'm really glad you're coming with us, Eddie.”

He wanted to insist that he never would have bailed, but she hugged him tighter and he forgot how to speak. The front of her dress was pressing up against the front of _his shirt_. A cartoonishly audible gulp crammed itself down his throat and he just wanted to die.

They were startled apart when "Girls on Film" started blaring out of his car speakers.

“Holy FUCK! I didn’t know prom already started!” Richie shouted through the window, ragdolled halfway into the front seat. Beverly started doing a ridiculous flip-off dance and the four of them dissolved into raucous laughter.

Eddie clutched at his chest, hoping for zero disasters. His heart was _not_ strong enough for an entire night of emotional whiplash.

 

 

 

**6**

Bill Denbrough stood alone, fiddling with his necktie at the edge of the school parking lot. It had been at least six years since he’d even attempted a Windsor knot. He gave a light, frustrated grunt and fucked his tie up a few more times before giving up. _Resigned to looking like the group Dad once again - finally home from a rough day at the office._ It seemed fitting, having spent his entire life feeling older than he should. They all struggled with growing up too fast, but Bill spent the past five years watching his youth drain out of him. There was too much on his mind and he could never distract himself or drop his fixation with his dreams. The worst part was he didn’t want to stop going back down every night. He was losing it.

He checked his watch for the eleventh time. It was mostly out of habit because he had forgotten when the others were supposed to show up. The sun was taking its time setting, growing so harsh that Bill had to take refuge behind a dumpster. It would be pitch dark later that evening - a new moon. He remembered stargazing with others at the quarry. Beverly caught their star chart on fire once. She was pretty drunk and tried to hold her lighter and look up at the same time. There was still a big, sooty smear over Ursa Major.

“There you are!”

"Here I am.” Bill felt someone thud against him, pressing their face into his chest like an excited kid - it sure as hell wasn’t Eddie. “Hey, Bev.”

Her lips were rose pink and a little glassy when she smiled, exuding youth. An overwhelming feeling of being out of place suddenly hit him and he wanted to bolt.

She smirked. “Need some help with your tie?”

He unwittingly glanced down into her cleavage and blushed. Feelings of love and desire became distant, abstract things to him at one point and he couldn’t quite remember why. “Y-yeah. I’m kind of a m-m-mess, sorry.”

“Psh. You’re a total babe, stop it.”

Bill briefly remembered the handful of times they kissed. “I can squat if you need me to -”

“No, you’re fine,” she said. She stood on her tiptoes. It was stupid, but he honestly could have fallen back in love with Beverly just watching her tie a fucking tie. She was leaning into him, focused on wrapping his tie around itself in a complicated knot.

Bill held his breath. And resisted the urge to swallow.

“We can use Eddie as a stool -” there was a pained yelp.

Bill was so fixated on Beverly that he forgot there were four other people with them. Four other people who cleaned up _very_ nicely. He wouldn’t have recognized Richie (who narrowly dodged Eddie’s shoe) if it weren’t for his thrice-broken nose and uncontrollable mouth.

Bill managed a “wow.”

Stan cocked his head. “Hi to you, too." Bill had such early memories of him that every time he looked at Stanley Uris it nearly knocked him flat. He was the personification of uninhibited throughout high school - sort of how he was when they were kids. He was calmer and more adventurous when they were little, but then middle school happened and everything went to shit. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his tight-curled dark auburn hair.

The guy standing level with him looked like a complete stranger at first glance. Bill saw Ben the least out of everyone, which wasn’t saying much, but it was still a shame. There had always been a strange barrier between them, sort of like a sheet of glass. He was certain it began with their collective awkwardness around Beverly. They were kids, though. None of them knew what the hell they were doing.

Ben noticed him staring. “Any particular reason we’re hanging out next to a dumpster?”

Beverly jokingly crossed her arms and slouched. “I _like_ it, it's a _statement._ " Ben looked kind of anxiously amused. "Like high school is _garbage_ , Ben.”

"Got it," he said quietly.

“Wait, where’s Mike?” Eddie was grumpily fetching his shoe from the grass. Bill thought he looked a bit a like a character in a romantic comedy - he had a certain unwitting charm about him.

“He’s already in there,” Beverly finished adjusting Bill's tie and patted him on the chest. He felt her hand slip into his and the romantic regrets surged back. “He’s gonna sneak out in a few.”

“And then we’re going in together?”

“Obvs. We’re each other’s dates," she said.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Eddie breathed.

"Eds, you've known this for weeks," Richie muttered.

"No, Mike. He...he..."

The instant he transferred in for sophomore year, Mike Hanlon shot up about a foot. He outgrew the dungarees and dusty t-shirts and no one had been expecting him to, well, get hot. He wore his letterman jacket most days, which looked very cool and _signature_ on him. Sometimes he switched things up and rocked a wild button-down or flannel. But that was what everyone was used to so it was impossible not to gawk at him when he jogged up to them. Mike looked a little weirded-out while they visually devoured his three piece suit. He awkwardly adjusted a snazzy pair of bottle green circle glasses. He should have been on a catwalk or in a fashion spread instead of helping coordinate a fucking high school prom.

Bill was pretty sure he was blushing like a schoolgirl.

Mike glanced at the dumpster and snorted. “What’s up, losers? Garbage day?”

Beverly leapt forward and threw her arms around his waist. “Dude, so brutal!”

He cracked up, flashing his offensively charming smile, and stepped back to take a look at her. “And you _usually_ look brutal, but cute is actually workin’ real well for ya.” He was the only person who could’ve called her cute that night without getting hit in the mouth - she’d probably have to stand on a chair to reach him, anyway.

"Wanna switch?" She grumbled.

"It's too late for that, Bev. Maybe next time." He bent down a little and carefully slid his glasses onto her nose. “There, that better?”

“You know me too well.”

Mike did a cartoony double-take when he noticed Stan and Richie. “Damn! You guys look like you just started a business together.”

“Hmm. How ‘bout it Stan the Man?” Stanley rolled his eyes as far back as they would go. “For starters, we gotta play the market, buy stocks, invest in something people use a lot of! Like personal lubricant -”

Beverly reached up and covered his mouth. “Save it for a slow dance, perv.” He licked her hand and she drew back like she had touched a hot stove. “ _RICHIE_.”

“Just so you guys know,” Eddie sounded a little nauseated. “If I hear "Time After Time", I’m gone.” Stan gagged. “It’s 1995. We should be past this already.”

“Don’t worry, Austin has pretty good taste in music - I checked his tracks out the other day during set-up. I mean, he’s gotta play certain songs or people are gonna riot, but he’s a cool kid,” Mike said.

“Austin? I don’t know no stinkin’ Austin.”

Beverly gave Richie a flat look. “Gay Kid.”

“Oh shit! I love Gay Kid!”

“ _He has a real name_ , jerkwad.” She said, smacking his hand away as he reached for Mike’s sunglasses.

They fascinated Bill. Richie and Beverly were practically opposites as kids. Beverly was determined to keep everyone together and Richie got a little rebellious. He took every opportunity to butt heads with her even though she sidestepped him every time. But they had gone from siblings flipping each other off to dance partners in three short years. The nature of their group changed along with them. Although they practically shared clothes, their relationships with the others never diminished. It was quite the opposite. From his vantage point, Bill saw them as conduits. Whether they knew it or not, Richie and Beverly were always working to save what they could.

Bill remembered one Christmas Eve when his uncle got wasted and started giving him, then 14, unsolicited dating advice. He slurred most of it, but Bill took two points to heart: don’t keep secrets and fall in love with your best friend. Easier said than done for dear uncle Peter but it seemed he was right - even though there were seven of them.

“Okay," Bill said. "Ready?”

Beverly heaved a sigh. “This is gonna suck.”

Eddie gripped her hand, looking ready to collapse under his anxiety.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some ugly sketches of the prom attire. Drawing to scale is bullshit. (it's also kinda big to fit all of them I'm SORRY)  
> This is my guarantee that there is gonna be some logistically awkward slow dancing. Brace for embarrassment.
> 
> Also: Aunt Beth is my favorite random OC. idk why Bev's aunt is always "Beth" for me, but it was fun to go from no-nonsense 1940's maneater Beth to 1970's get turnt probably gay Beth.


	3. I can't cool down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god a teen movie is happening  
> Bill is an asshole sometimes  
> Someone please help Stan  
> Go off, I guess
> 
> WELCOME TO FEELINGS HELL
> 
> I'm tagging Bill/Stan even though it's...different? There's a reason for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did two things: I moved part of this chapter back to the end of ch.2, so uh I'm sorry - *cries*  
> I also had to split prom into multiple parts because this is getting so fucking long because I'm doing a lot of crossover and it's like a fucking episode of 24 - sorry for the hella lagging update. I was trying to do all of the proms. *sweats*
> 
> I apologize for Bill’s purple prose voice - he is definitely 18 and a writer and probably read The Bell Jar for class so I just decided to run with it.

 

**1**

It would have been naïve of Bill Denbrough to expect anything less than an absolute clusterfuck.

Strolling into the gymnasium that night wasn't meant to be a huge, scandalous display. To a somewhat conservative (yet irreverent) student body, however, one girl with a walking in with six male dates was a _hell_ of a display. It must have violated at least 10 moral codes. One date was fine, two was usually just a third wheel situation, but six was absolutely perverted. It didn't help that the one girl had an extremely bad reputation. Bill was quite aware of how it looked, but he couldn't have cared less. Going together was the only reason they all showed up in the first place. And it wasn’t as if they were about to sneak in one-by-one because of what people thought of them - they’d _never_ cared about what people thought of them. Why the fuck would they pick a time like senior prom to start?

Although they were rarely seen all together, The Losers Club was infamous. People of all ages had theories. They cooked up wild rumors, and drew their own conclusions. For example, they never had an orgy in the band room, nor did they keep a calendar of who was fucking who that week. They didn't hook up in middle school, and they definitely didn’t swap underwear on Tuesdays. Some of the rumors weren’t entirely unfounded, though. The blood pact was true.

Even though some borderline conspiracies about their various activities had hatched in the halls of Derry High by senior year (Bill especially liked the Cult of Baal theory), a few common occurrences didn't help put the rumors to rest. Whenever any of them tried to date or bring someone else in, something always forced that extra person back out. This only added more fuel to the _"are they all fucking Beverly Marsh?_ " fire. On top of that, few of the seven had any especially close friends outside of the group. They had acquaintances and people to hang out with but no one they would ever open up to like they did with each other.

Their classmates’ opinions were set, even on something as short and sweet as prom. They expected Beverly would dance with six guys because she was a deviant who had no shame and the others would ignore everyone but each other because all seven of them had been stuck _that_ far up each other’s asses since the 8th grade. Allegedly.

It couldn't be helped, so they gave the student body a parting gift: exactly what they wanted.

Shoulders were tapped and fingers were pointed. A hush settled over half of the gym and countless sets of eyes were instantly fixed on them. They had walked in quite normally but it seemed that someone had banged a gavel and ruled in favor of every case against their decency. The air was suddenly so thick with hostility that it felt like they were being physically pushed.

Bill noticed Eddie’s young face distorting with pain. Beverly was practically strangling his hand. She was bracing her dainty, glossy heels against the waxed floor like she was waiting for a bomb to go off. They were getting to her.

Mounting taunts and cries started flying left and right. There was even a well-timed record scratch. It was surreal - seven regular people trapped in a fucking teen movie cliché.

 _What did we do to deserve this bullshit?_ The thought had been skipping in Bill's head like a broken record for years. If it wasn't a shape-shifting otherworldly demon, it was another monster: angry mobs.

Most of the voices in the crowd had been around forever. They still focused on Beverly and the guys went ignored for the most part. The usual.

_"Who ya gonna fuck first, Marsh?"_

_"What a slut!"_

_"Which one doesn't have VD yet?"_

_"I told you they were polygamists!"_

The Bowers Gang hadn’t been their only tormentors as kids, but the other bullies lost interest in the boys. High school gave them that, at least. They got taller, wiser, and harder to fuck with. Richie was too hard to pin down, and _nobody_ was stupid enough to pick a fight with Mike or Ben. Stan was almost impossible to intimidate, Bill was a ghost - and poor Eddie was conveniently shoved behind Beverly. (Bill was fairly certain she did that on purpose.)

He watched her face. Her lips were a tight line, her pale shoulders rigid, cheeks flushed a furious rose. She was almost glaring scorch marks into the gym floor. Beverly remained the strongest of the seven, but there was a seemingly endless struggle between her restraint and fury. There were only a few instances where Bill had witnessed her true anger. Fierce as it was, it had never been directed at the people that tried to beat her down in the halls and on the streets. There were worse tormentors - demons, murderers, parents who betray their children's trust. There were far worse things to worry about than rumors and insults, things that Bill hoped to god would never succeed in breaking her.

Richie, was clearly done with it (and a little frightened of Beverly’s pressure cooker rage). He gently elbowed her with an excited _"watch this!"_ look on his face. He then cupped his mouth and, in the loudest voice he could manage, shouted, “PLAY THAT SONG ABOUT _DOIN’ IT_!” Bill fought back a loud snort while the other five stared at Richie like he’d finally cracked.

The DJ heard him loud and clear - he even upped the volume and frequencies enough to drown out any other shouts from the students.

In spite of Beverly's palpable anger, Richie circled an arm around her. He began rubbing her back as if she were freezing even though her cheeks were bright red. Sometimes Bill wondered if he was the only truly sane one of them left.

She released Eddie’s hand and he shook it out, wearing a twisted expression of ache and relief.

“You’re okay,” Richie said. She was taking deep breaths while he carefully stroked her hair. “You’re super cool and beautiful and by _gawd_ , y’all gots the patience of awr lord n’ savior, _Jesus H. Christ_.”

Stan tucked one of her stray fiery locks behind her ear. “I can vouch for that - except for the Jesus part.” Bill caught a little twitch of a smile on her lips.

“Next person says anything is gonna fuckin’ drop,” Eddie ground out, still massaging his knuckles.

Ben nudged him. “Tag team?”

It was a ridiculous image and everyone had a laugh, but the funniest thing about it was Ben wasn't joking. He was known for laying solid beat-downs, not too often, but harsh enough that word got out. Almost every guy in school was terrified of him. The one that really earned him notoriety was when he smeared a senior during track practice. They found him face down and almost had to scrape the unlucky bastard's face off the rubbery asphalt. Ben was suspended and nearly thrown off the track team, but he never expressed any remorse for what he did. He never said why, either, but it was pretty obvious that the guy got handsy with the wrong redhead.

“... _bunch of asslicking fuckfaces_...” Beverly took a second to breathe and broke away from Richie, eyes still trained on the floor “I’m so sorry for all of -”

Eddie placed a finger right in front of her lips, ever courteous about not messing with her makeup. “No.” He was tight-lipped, with cheeks just as red as hers. “Don’t be sorry for _them_.”

“Can I be sorry about wrecking your hand?”

Eddie shook his head dismissively, smiling a little.

Bill looked at Richie sidelong. “How did that work, though?”

He proudly straightened his lapels, looking very foxish. “Bill, please. I know what the masses desire.”

“Don't we know it, Carson...guess I better get back to it,” Mike began a spiritless backwards walk toward the front of the gym. “Just lemme know if you need anything or like, just wanna come hang out. So I don’t go insane.”

“Actually,” Eddie cleared his throat, and scanned his surroundings with wary eyes as Mike disappeared into the crowd. “I’m gonna go with him for a bit. I’ll see you guys later.” He bolted.

Stan stared after him with a cutting smirk. “Well, he took off quick.”

“Prob’ly has the right idea,” Ben said.

A few students and teachers were still giving them the stink eye, but the frantic energy in the gym had resumed. Bill felt the group's shared anxiety ebb away. Everything was out in the open now and it wasn’t worth everybody’s time to keep up the shocked and appalled act. _Good_ , he thought. _That was a waste of a perfectly good house jam_.

Low lighting tended to creep Bill out, but he liked how the gym turned out. It was vibrant and colorful but dark like a groovy blacklight poster. He was just strolling through a weird nonsense dream. There were neon circles on the floor instead of dirt and shit, and loud music instead of crushing silence. Mike did an incredible job with setup and wrangling the prom committee divas, but people still gave him shitty looks - especially the girls he turned down. They couldn’t please anyone and, bless him, Mike was the only one who kept trying.

It didn't take long to find a free table. Richie and Stan, likely mistaken for chaperones in their sharp attire, spooked a table full of skittish band kids and it was done. Richie declared it their "base camp".

“We have to set tripwires -”

“This isn’t ‘Nam, sit the fuck down.” Stan said. He rearranged the candles in the middle of the table before taking a seat. Bill watched him elegantly cross his leg at the ankle - inexcusably handsome and composed.

Bill looked down at himself - half-assed, but it was as good as he’d get, so there was no use getting depressed about it.

When he was younger, Bill would jump at any excuse to dress up - church, weddings, picture day, even birthday parties. Sometimes he'd end up on the wrong side of Henry Bowers and get his ass kicked for it, but color safe bleach existed for a reason. _I never knew grass stains would take on a silk bow-tie_.

“Alright, we’re going in.” Beverly seized Bill’s hand with resolve.

“Have fun, you two,” Ben said.

Richie snapped them an exaggerated salute. “Go cut a rug to Ace of Base or something.”

 _Oh god_. Bill was more likely to trip over a rug.

She led him by the hand straight into the throng of couples and groups of people who hated them. The music faded out right when she found them a roomy spot near the front. Bill noticed the set line of her jaw and her confident (albeit short) steps, but her eyes really drew him in. They were different - bright and eager. He smiled. The change in her demeanor honestly impressed (and flattered) him, not that he would ever expect any less. Beverly was fearless; she hurt and bled like anyone but she didn’t get scared, she survived. They always had that in common, even as kids.

The transition between songs sounded a little weird and Beverly giggled. Once he caught the first few seconds, he was certain that she’d whispered in Mike’s ear at some point.

Bill gave her a sly look. “This isn’t prom music.”

Her bare shoulders quivered with laughter as she led him into dancing with her. He was never very good, but it wasn't a complicated song so he let her take over. “Should be,” she said. “It’s one of those songs where people don’t pay attention to the lyrics because it just sounds like a catchy pop song.”

“Alright, what’s it about?”

“Hobos getting killed by earthquakes.” Bill suppressed a loud snort while Beverly did a little spin beneath his arm. Her pretty blue dress flared out a little. “Like, the _man_ is the earthquake,” she explained, “and they’re just waiting to die.”

Bill threw his head back in an honest to god laugh. Any of the guys could make him laugh, but Beverly made him giddy, so much that the absurdity of their first dance together was enough for him to forget about his chronic exhaustion. He felt the same way when he found out she and her bizarre sense of humor had moved back to Derry.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Yeah, Bev?”

“How are you?”

He wanted to joke about making small talk bopping around on a dance floor, but she wasn't laughing now. “Okay, I guess.” She was scanning him with her sharp eyes and Bill had a troubling thought that his dear friend was looking into his soul, seeing the tunnels. He swallowed hard. “Might-...might be going a little c-c-crazy.”

“Why’d you go away?” She was still dancing and he was still kind ogling her, but there was a noticeably different vibe - harsh and painful like being kicked in the gut.

“I didn’t- I didn’t think about it. I -” _began straddling the border between two different realities? Kept obsessing over my own dreams until I stopped belonging in the waking hours? Still remember terrible things that you forgot?_ No matter what he said, she’d be pissed at him for trying to work through all of it by himself. And she would be absolutely right to feel that way. “I regret it.”

She frowned and took both of his hands, stroking across the middle of his palms. “I still love you even though you died.”

He'd always kept a clear image of Beverly ramming steel rebar down IT’s throat, but he’d somehow forgotten that he loved her. “I still love you even though I’m dead.”

She stood on the tips of her saddle shoes and kissed him. The music dropped off and he was left with his own rapid heartbeat.

Her voice was fuzzy and muffled in his ears. “Oh, shit. I didn’t know my lip gloss was so sticky.”

“I can wipe it off later,” he murmured.

Bill caught her mouth again, yanking her body tight against his, trailing his hands down to her lower back, grabbing handfuls of her lacy dress. Her hands found purchase on his shirt collar and in his hair, pulling him down closer. As much as he wanted to leave with her and forget about the part where they were just going to dance for a few songs, he kept his hands above her waist. The idea of touching where her waist dipped inward was beginning to dig its claws into his weakened self-control.

_There is a time and a place and neither of those are prom, Bill._

Bill grudgingly dragged himself out of whatever deep, hazy lust they’d slipped into. He broke away. Her shaded eyes and parted lips angled up toward him made him want to jump right back to it, but they were at senior prom. And the music changed so they both looked incredibly out of place. He cleared his throat.

Beverly looked up at his mouth and began to giggle. Bill felt he’d lose his mind if he ever forgot what her laugh sounded like. She laughed even harder when he shamelessly wiped his mouth on the inside of his suit jacket.

“Bill Denbrough."

“Yeah?”

“I’m never going to forgive you.”

“You don’t have to."

“Is this our song now?”

He cocked his head toward the speakers and listened for a moment. “I have no idea who it’s by...definitely don’t know why that girl is poison, but sure. Let’s go with it.”

She fought back a smile, placing her hand tenderly against his cheek. “Think of me whenever you hear a song about loose women?”

Bill was back to laughing harder than he had in months.

Beverly Marsh would be his undoing one day. He knew it.

 

****

 

**2**

“When’s my turn again?”

“You’ve asked me five times already. I’m not telling you again.”

“After Mike, dude.”

Richie groaned, thunking his head onto the table. “This is gonna take forever...should’a brought a fuckin’ crossword puzzle or something.”

“ _Shit_ , we could be tearing through a whole stack of Reader’s Digests right now,” Ben said, stifling a yawn. Stan had already lost count of Ben's mid-sentence yawns.

“Know what I really wanna do right now, Ben? Leaf through the TV Guide and plan my week around Golden Girls re-runs.”

Ben rubbed his chin. “I’m gonna be straight with you, man. You’re getting me a little hot right now.”

“Ooh yeah, join me in domestic bliss, baby.”

“Are you proposing?”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. He often forgot that Ben's inner dork usually came out when he was with Richie. To his credit, he spoke fluent Trashmouth and was one of the few that could actually hold a serious conversation with him. If Stan tried to explain to Richie that something he said or did was both wrong and stupid, they would get nowhere - at least no further than grappling on his front lawn. _Hell of a Fourth of July_ that _was_.

Even though his focus was limited to their little table (and his friends’ obnoxious laughter) Stan was beginning to feel unhinged. It wasn’t the crowd or the noise, it was the overwhelming, smothering pressure of _teenagers_. Impulsive hormones had cornered him and were stomping the reason out of him like a mafia hit squad.

Stan wasn’t like Ben or Richie or Eddie. He didn't start drooling and thumping his leg every time something turned him on. Stanley Uris had restraint! Sex was no big deal, definitely not worth turning into a fucking Tex Avery cartoon. Touching Ben’s forearms while he rolled his shirt sleeves for him wasn’t a big deal. He could handle Richie staring at him with that big, dumb smile on his face. Eddie’s flushed cheeks while he snuck looks at everyone, Bill’s stupid handsome, tired face - _ALL_ OF MIKE - no problem! And shit, while he was at it, Beverly’s dress being a little too tight in the chest wasn’t killing him at all. He had absolutely no desire to tear anyone’s clothes off or jump anyone’s bones. It was all good! Stanley was fine.

He was mature and he was _fine_.

“Um, sorry, hi.”

The table fell silent. A petite brunette girl had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She was waiting patiently for one of them to respond. They weren't expecting to be spoken to, let alone _approached,_ so they just sat there with wide, owlish eyes.

She had a vaguely familiar face - most likely another senior, twirling her hair, sitting behind you in chemistry, pining and trying to gather up her courage, _yadda, yadda, yadda_.

“Can we help you?” Stan asked flatly. He apparently didn’t like this girl very much, whoever she was. He felt a little bad for his tone, though. It kind of reminded him of the first time he actually spoke to Bev.

She looked a little intimidated by his shortness but quickly shook it off and turned to Richie. “Will you dance with me?”

Besides being completely taken aback by the thought, Stan was also a little offended. Richie was admittedly crush-worthy in a fun, different sort of way, but Ben was sought after, _fought_ over, and he was sitting right next to Richie _fucking_ Tozier doing absolutely _nothing_! But this random girl decides she’s going to traipse off with Richie of all people. She was probably hoping to get felt up and she'd probably get just that. Stan honestly wouldn't put it past someone who thinks it’s funny to go to department stores and look up mannequins' dresses.

 _Ben would be nothing but a gentleman with a little tart like her_ , Stan thought venomously. _Her dress doesn’t even have straps!_

Richie bounced back quick, instantly on his feet, offering her his clean, pressed, slate-blue arm. “Now, what kind of dirtbag would turn down someone this lovely? I mean, _come on_ , look at’cha.”

Prom was beginning to feel like a tightening noose.

She slipped her delicate little arm through his, giggling softly. As he was swallowed by the crowd, Richie glanced back at them, gesturing wildly to his suit, shrugging.

“You think it’s the suit?” Ben asked.

Stan glared after them. “I think it’s cursed.”

A sweaty-looking Bill suddenly plopped down on the chair next to Stan like someone had tossed him there. He smiled across the table at Ben. He looked uncharacteristically _goofy_. “Alright, Haystack, you’re up.”

Ben, blushing scarlet, scrambled to his feet and nearly tripped over the legs of his chair in the process. “Wow, already!”

They could practically hear Ben's heart hammering double-time through his ribcage. Bill Denbrough was an agent of chaos, a car wreck on two peaky legs. Stan was getting ready to yell at him for startling them. Prom was stressful enough without whatever whimsy he'd soaked up dancing with Beverly.

But Ben was off before Stan could manage a single _"goddamnit"_.

“Never change, Ben,” he sighed. Stan tried not to stare at his ass while he walked away. _Nope. Glorious_. _Fucking glorious_. But Stan Uris was mature, he had self-control. “Think he’d still get all dopey over Bev when he’s, like, 40?”

Bill laughed through his nose. “I’d be concerned if he didn’t.” There was something different about him and Stan couldn’t quite figure out what it was - did he look more awake? Was he smiling more than usual?

“Is that lip gloss?”

“Wanna step out for a bit?”

Stan raised an eyebrow, thoroughly confused. “Sure.”

They hadn't talked in ages and going outside was probably better for their friendship than throttling him in front of god and the Student Government Association. Stan had to really search for his last memory of spending time with Bill.

 

_Stan didn't ask how many miles separated Derry from the beach. If they were just going to any old beach, the distance probably wouldn't have mattered. It would have probably been an okay car ride. But Mike had found a quiet state park beach up north and it was almost in a different climate. But it was the middle of July and most of the popular beaches were full of kids and old people, anyway. They also had about $60 between them (reserved for gas and booze) so camping was the only way they could conceivably paddle around in the ocean and get underage-drunk with any privacy. Stan trusted Mike but the trip was definitely going to suck._

_Bill's car was also an abomination._

_It sounded like it was from hell and it didn't have any air conditioning. It was also ugly and Stan hated it._

_They couldn’t fit a fourth person in Eddie’s car, though, and he didn’t want to be a dick and break up the jock squad. Ben and Mike even offered to switch with him, but Stan just couldn't do it. They were working that summer and he wanted them to have a nice trip in Eddie's nice car. There was also the unavoidable menace of being stuck in a car with a hyped up Richie Tozier. Stan wouldn't wish that on anyone._

_Despite his worrying, the trip wasn't terrible. It was definitely sweaty and gross, but Richie was mysteriously tired that morning and wound up passed out with his cheek mushed against the window for most of the drive._

_Beverly talked to them for a while and they did a few Mad Libs but she ended up scooting to the middle seat and fell asleep on Richie's shoulder. It was almost like they weren't even there._

_There was an awkward stillness in the car at first. Bill kept his calm, steady gaze ahead while Stan fidgeted with the hem of his tee shirt. He was feeling stupid for not coming up with anything to talk about. Part of him wanted to crawl into the back seat and pass out on the other two just to avoid the awkwardness. It felt like trying to talk to a stranger._

_Stan felt his relationship with Bill was always kind of touchy. Bill followed his own whims and if you couldn’t keep up, you’d get left behind._ _Stan hated the idea of getting left behind even though getting into random, messy shit wasn’t his idea of a good time_ _. While he just wanted to sit down and read some comic books or go play in a sprinkler, Bill wanted to go cram a bunch of sticks and rocks into a drain pipe, or go hop across the Kenduskaeg so they could fall and eat shit on a bunch of rocks for no fucking reason. He wanted to hang out with Bill, though - everyone wanted to hang out with Bill! Stan loved him, but Bill Denbrough could be a complete feckless asshole sometimes._

_Cutting himself off from everyone felt like one of his stupid whims._

_Stan busied himself with rearranging the glove compartment while the silence dragged on. He eventually moved on to sorting through a bunch of cassette tapes littering the passenger seat floor. There were a few mixtapes and oddities. Bill had the Twin Peaks soundtrack for some reason - and an ABBA Gold tape that probably belonged to his grandad. It was a wasteland._ How does he find anything on these?

_“What’s in the tape deck?”_

_“Mixtape."_

_“You have a lot of mixtapes.”_

_Bill shrugged, then gestured graciously to the tape deck._

_They sat listening to some very non-beachy music for a minute. It was that kind of music where you couldn’t tell if all of the guitars were acoustic or not, and they talked about driving and weather all the time. Definitely something they'd make you sing at a hippie summer camp._

 

Five year plans and new deals

Wrapped in golden chains

And I wonder, still I wonder

Who'll stop the rain?

 

_“This is dad music, Bill.”_

_He snorted loudly and covered his mouth._

_Richie grunted in his sleep, mumbling. “Uuugh...Dad, why...”_

_Stan dissolved into ugly snorts and quickly ejected the tape. They spent the rest of the trip cracking up over it._

 

Stan always thought Bill had a serious face, and that he looked much better when he was laughing. It seemed some of those extra years he’d piled on during high school had melted away after his whopping 10 minutes of dancing with Beverly. _30 minutes could probably cure Ebola, maybe 40 could wipe out AIDS,_ surely _an hour could kill cancer._

They strolled through the parking lot chatting about light bulb colors and shit. Stan was only half-responding. The agitation tearing into him receded a bit in the clear night air and he felt like he could finally think straight. The way Bill was acting triggered another sort of agitation, so it didn't make much of a difference. _Where do you get off? Where have you been?_ It was as if Bill had never left them, like he didn't hide in a shell for an entire year, yet there he was talking Stan's ear off. _He's just gonna leave again after tonight. Why would he even fucking bother with us at the last minute?_

“Feels weird in there, huh?” Bill said.

“I don’t know _what_ it feels like.”

He settled himself against his godawful grandad car, hands in his pockets. His tie was loose. “You looked ready to jump out of your chair and bite someone,” he said.

“And you look like you ate Beverly.”

He held a hand up, looking ready to speak, but he just started laughing again. Stan watched him stoically. Bill wiped the corner of his mouth against the back of his hand. “Not exactly.”

The thought of him slipping his tongue into Beverly’s mouth was too much process in his current state - and Bill’s fucking tie was crooked. Stan was ready for him to leave. “You won’t forget my schnapps, right?” Bill snapped out of his reverie and nodded. “I think I gave you enough,” Stan mumbled. “Oh! And make sure you hide it. I don’t trust Eddie.”

Bill grimaced. “Yeah, that stuff can go down a little too easily and he, uh...yeah.”

The Losers Club discovered Eddie's almost supernatural alcohol tolerance last summer. He survived going shot-for-shot with Ben _and_ they killed Stan’s Goldschläger - in one night. Being underage and out in the open on a beach wasn’t bad enough! They also had to babysit some rabid weasel version of Eddie Kaspbrak. They couldn’t get the bottle away from him without getting bitten or kicked. He didn’t die, but he definitely made a paranoid, sober Stan carry him into the woods to pee because he was nervous about getting attacked by _"night animals"_.

“Yeah, I’m not dealing with that _Gremlins_ shit again,” Stan said dryly.

“You don’t have to. Ben’s not gonna pass out like last time.” He swiped his auburn bangs back out of his eyes with a promising smile. “And, y’know, if he does, I’ll -”

“Okay, I’m sorry - your tie is driving me nuts.”

Bill arched an eyebrow. “I was about to take it off anyway.”

Stan hated the frustratingly mild, amused look on Bill’s face, and how his deep blue eyes kept dodging down, watching him fidgeting with his collar. “I _know_ , I just -”  He felt Bill’s warm hands on his waist. “I’m -”

He tilted his head up, and kissed Stan right on the lips.

They never saw him - he hardly _touched_ anyone else, and he just decided to kiss someone he never fucking talked to. Bill did whatever the fuck he felt like.

He mumbled something like _"settle down"_ between short, gentle pecks but Stan did the opposite. He grabbed handfuls of his jacket and forced his tongue into Bill’s cupcake lip gloss-flavored mouth that didn't know when to _shut the fuck up_.

Negative feelings and emotions constantly fought for dominance in Stan’s head. He’d spent every day since he was 13 trying to reach some kind of truce with everything that bothered him - things from minutes, even _years_ past - but all he could do was shove it back somewhere because he was so frightened of how painful it was to bring back to the surface. He couldn’t deal with a single fucking thing in his life.

Bill could. He _did_. Maybe that was why he was tired and ignoring his friends while Stan was constantly trying to remain cool even though he was about to snap.

Stan had no idea why being out there with Bill was dredging up so much shit. _Where the fuck was he for the past year? Where was he when I needed him - when we all needed him?_ Where was Bill when he felt like killing himself sophomore year? And the only things that kept him from it were Mike transferring in and Ben holding him through panic attacks? Where was Bill when _nobody_ talked for months on end? Where the fuck was Bill when Erica happened?

He was _always_ the first to leave. _If you can't keep up, you'll be left behind._

Bill pulled away just enough to whisper. “You’re okay.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Stan hissed before slating their mouths back together.

No matter how hard he kissed him or how close he brought their bodies together, Bill stayed where he was. He was unshakable and it frustrated him - he was confident, he was _calm_. What did that feel like? He grazed his teeth across Bill’s lower lip, heatedly thrusting their tongues together, not out of passion, only anger.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Stan bit his lip and he winced back. “I fucked up. IT fucked me up.”

Something spiked inside of him, like thousands of needles under his skin, and Stan pushed away from Bill. He wanted to vomit. “ _What_ fucked you up? What the fuck are you talking about.”

Bill was confident, he was calm. “We’d never leave you.”

Tears sprung into Stan's eyes. _Why do they keep saying that to me? What the fuck are they talking about?_ His heart was pounding spastically. A quiet hiccupy sob slipped out of his mouth. Whatever part of Stan that was panicking needed Bill right then even though he hated it. He hated that he didn't know calm anymore. He hated _Bill_ for leaving him.

He wanted to hear it from _Bill_ , he wanted _Bill_ to say it to him, the skinny bundle of nerves named Stanley Uris needed someone to fucking turn to him and tell him he was okay, that the others would stay with him because he knew _Bill_ fucking wouldn’t.

“We love you.” Bill gently gripped his shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug. “I love you, Stan. You’re going to be okay.”

Stan bit into his lip hard and began to cry, clutching desperately at the back of Bill’s jacket. He was in such pain. All of the hard to reach memories were like patched up holes and it felt like they were trying to burst open. Terrible things wanted out and now he remembered how hard he had tried to fix himself. But he'd never been able to reach that deep pain. He couldn’t touch them, and you can’t fix or control something you can’t touch. Fear and pain came from the same intangible, illogical place - they were disorderly and _filthy_ and he couldn’t face them. He couldn't.

Some time passed while Bill patiently held him.

He didn’t want him to let go. He almost trusted him again and he was going to leave.

Bill Denbrough slid into the driver’s seat of his car. It started up with its usual ugly groaning sound. Bill pulled the door shut with a rattly thunk and leaned out of the window. “Thanks for fixing my tie.” There was a youthful look to him now. Stan knew he looked like hell in contrast.

“You can take it off now.”

“I think I’ll keep it." Bill smiled and fiddled with the tie for a moment. "Makes me look more adult, right?”

Stan wiped his eyes on his shirt cuff. “Sure. Like they’re gonna card you without it,” he scoffed.

"No fake. See ya later.”

Stan gave him a little salute and he was gone. He stood watching the brake lights disappear with his shaking hands in his pockets. One day it would happen all over again and he wouldn’t have Bill or Ben or anyone else there to hold him through it. His gut clenched. _That's right - you’re fucked, Stan._

“Dude! I’ve been looking all over!”

The shaking stopped. It was Ben’s voice. Stan turned to face him; the guy hadn't even broken a sweat.

“I got back and you weren't there, so I was just -” his brow creased. “You ok, Stan?”

He shook his head, letting out a small breathy laugh. “Something like it.”

 

****


	4. Clean as a whistle, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben dies for a minute.  
> Eddie needs his big brother Mike.  
> Austin is an untouchable golden baby boy.  
> Beverly waxes poetic about club music. Serious business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get kind of dark at certain points but I literally cannot bring myself to whizz past a lot of Mike’s stuff because he’s just cool as heck (you KNOW I watched those leaked scenes). Henry Bowers is mentioned a bit. Oh, and Pennywise. Welcome to my flimsy AU. Hello.
> 
> Original male character pops up! He kind of came out of nowhere but I like him - not just because he’s my son. I seriously see OMC/OFC and run screaming in the other direction, so I really hope he’s a likable dude and I’m not a hypocrite.

 

 

**1**

Ben had always been an easy-going person. The others always thought so and they liked him for it. He was glad; he wanted to be someone they liked because the Losers Club was the best thing that had ever happened to him. There were no favorites, no cliques, no grudges or hate, only a cohesive group of seven best friends. They had arguments (and some of the guys scrapped on occasion) but Ben knew they’d never break up like the average friend group. They tried it once in 1989 and it didn't work.

Ben remembered that summer well. There were the hits, like coming out of childhood isolation, talking to Beverly for the first time, and nearly being gutted by Henry Bowers. He could deal with those memories, however awkward or terrifying. But his memory ran deeper, to darker places. Ben remembered the headless boy, the blood, the sewers - he remembered IT. Those memories sat on a timeline in his head - chronicles of his torment as a 13 year old whose life was beginning to look up _just_ a little bit. It was hell, alright. But Ben didn't worry about himself as he did the others that summer. After the first couple of scares wore off, the clown didn’t have much influence over him. He endured his own trials with no complaints, spending his nights awake with the lights on and the TV blaring reruns (as he would until July 1995). He was quiet until he heard that his friends had suffered the same way. He had no control in bad situations - "things happen for a reason" as his mom would say - but he knew he could do more. He got angry. And he stayed angry. Ben didn’t know if he’d ever _stop_ being angry.

Things happened for a reason, but they weren't fixed. He learned this when the seven of them managed to change what _should_ have happened, what IT wanted to happen.

 

_They broke into the house on Neibolt Street the second they heard screaming. It didn't matter that they had been afraid seconds before. They were like wild animals tearing away at the splintery boards covering the back door. One of their seven was in serious danger. Mike kicked in the corroded doorknob and they burst through the door. Ben barreled down the hall, falling over Stan and whacking into Beverly in his haste to follow the voice. It was one voice. Eddie's voice. And god knew what that meant for Bill and Richie._

_They skidded into the kitchen and there was Eddie, crumpled up in the corner, still screaming. His twiggy little arm laid crooked in his lap and his wide eyes were fixed on the clown. It was yucking around like a cartoon character; cackling and whining like the whole thing was a joke. Its joy in Eddie's pain was so disgusting and smug that Ben's anger growled to life. He wanted to make IT hurt - maybe snap its arm in half like Eddie’s or just stab its fucking eyes out._

_The_ fucking _clown._

_While he stood there seething in his head, Beverly shoved past him. She hurled herself forward, roaring with the very same anger he felt, and drove an iron bar through the clown’s bulbous head._

_Ben always knew he was in love with her, he just didn’t realize how much until that moment. She did exactly what he was thinking of doing: she hurt it,_ scared _it. The rod sticking out of its head nearly slashed Ben's guts open while IT tried to escape, but it didn't matter. Beverly saved their lives and lit a fire under his ass. If he wanted to help, if he wanted to survive, he needed to start_ doing _. She didn’t hesitate because she had to protect six dumb boys. Beverly Marsh took care of them, but she couldn't do it alone._

 

 

Prom started sucking the instant they walked in and Ben was sure it was about to suck even worse. He wanted to dance with Beverly at prom. It was one of his embarrassing boyhood fantasies, of course he would go through with it. But imminent disaster was stalking him across the dance floor and he was starting to freak out. Ben didn't know what would happen when he saw her - would he run? Would he cover his own boots in nervous throw-up? Or would he hang back and admire her for a minute? Catch her swaying around by herself to some random 80’s dance hit, doused in vibrant magenta light. It was like a goofy John Hughes dream. Every mushy, embarrassing feeling in his heart's arsenal hit him at once. No way Ben was about to chicken out. She was waiting - for him!

“Ben!” The loud music muted the tapping of her heels. “I sure hope you like mopey girls with guitars.” She took his hand and led him over to the little bubble of space she’d claimed. He was beyond grateful for the over-saturated lights masking his flushed cheeks.

“They’re fine, I guess,” he said.

Her arms only went about as far as his shoulders when she tried for the slow-dance position. They both struggled to arrange themselves for a moment.

“Uh...should I bend my knees?”

“You and Bill, oh my god.”

“I mean, I’ll do it. I will squat for 10 minutes straight if it’ll help.” She swatted his shoulder and Ben couldn't help but giggle. “I dunno, you wanna like, hug my waist or something? We can do it backwards.”

It was ridiculous, but it worked - logistically, anyway. She leaned her head against his chest and Ben had an impulsive thought about her doing the same thing horizontally. He bit his own tongue as punishment.

“I have a confession, Ben.”

The nerves were back. He was still working on biting his tongue in half so he just made a curious noise.

Beverly laughed softly. “I guess it’s not _just_ mine, but I used to watch you run almost every day after school.”

His first year and a half of running wasn’t pretty. There was a long struggle with changing his diet and learning to control his clumsy limbs - two uphill battles for a kid who had been overweight since he was 4. Ben wanted to quit every time he stepped onto the asphalt, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let him. He still didn't understand why he was always drawn back into running. He never would have considered it the year before, but he soon realized that he wasn’t angry when he ran. Running kept his mind off things so he could actually sleep at night. There was harassment, of course. Random upperclassmen would occasionally swing by and watch him on the empty track, laughing their asses off at him joggling around and running out of breath every 10 seconds. But, after everything he'd gone through, it didn't matter. It wasn’t like he could hear them over his frantic heartbeat or see past the sweat stinging his eyes, either. Still, the thought of Beverly watching him run made him want to build a fucking time machine so he could go back and bury his 14 year old self in the landfill shouting, " _THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!"_

“I never said anything, but...you’re amazing," Beverly said. "Seriously.”

“Hm.” Everyone gave him shit for it, but compliments were like dog whistles to Ben Hanscom. “I, uh...that...really means a lot coming from you.”

“ _S_ _top it_ , oh my god.” She buried her face in his chest. He didn’t look down at her. He couldn’t. “You know, he’d probably kill me if I told you, but Eddie was there more than I was.”

It was slightly less humiliating since he and Eddie had become so much closer, but Ben still blushed up to his ears. “Oh.”

Ben liked Eddie _a lot_ \- but he liked all of his friends a lot, so it wasn't a huge deal. They were teammates. Of course they were close. The two members of their group least likely to join a high school sports team ended up being teammates. It was funny, but it worked. They motivated each other, and Ben just felt better after Eddie joined. He remembered the first time they used the locker room together - Eddie called Ben's stretch marks (collateral damage in the war on his body) _"tiger stripes"_. Ben thought he was being cute for a second and almost jaked him back, but Eddie's earnest face and fond smile made that dumb little remark into a compliment. He never forgot it.

Beverly started snickering below him and he snapped his attention back to her. “Hey, Ben. Did you ever think half of the girls in school would fall in love with you?”

 _Oh jesus._ “No.” He stifled a nervous laugh. “God, no.” He stared up at the ceiling, determined not to look at her face, or her eyes or, _god forbid_ , the front of her dress.

“Well, I did.” She mused. “You’re so fucking smart and, like, really funny, but not an asshole about it. I mean, they’d _totally_ still fight over you even if you hadn’t gone all white Jesse Owens on us.”

His face was about to melt. “I think Jesse Owens had better reasons for running than I did.” Ben said.

“Hey, motivation is what’s important, right?”

He muttered a little _guess so_ in reply.

 

_And I thought that I was strong_

_I thought, "hey, I can leave, I can leave"_

_Oh but now I know that I was wrong_

 

 _A little on the nose there, lady._ It was probably for the best that he couldn’t reach her waist without looking ridiculous. The degree to which Ben held himself back from Beverly over the years was kind of extreme. Every time he tried to get over it and just be her friend it got worse. It was why Ben dated so often. Objectively perfect girls practically _threw_ themselves at him throughout high school. He didn’t understand why anyone would ever do that for him, he went with it. Every new person Ben let in made him feel like he could finally start cutting some of his overkill bonds with the group and stop pining for his friends. The girls always drew him back Beverly, though. It just wasn’t fair that he’d go right back to thinking about her no matter who he dated. No one came close to the tomboy who gave him a subtle, teasing smirk, hiding his New Kids on the Block poster from the other guys so they wouldn’t razz him into an early grave.

He rarely saw her, though, and when he did, she was twice as pretty and attached to another guy. It was Richie most of the time, but it still drove Ben a little nuts. If he didn’t love Trashmouth as much as he did, he would have knocked him out at some point. Beverly's abusive exes weren’t so lucky.

“You awake up there, Ben?”

“Do you think they play this song in coffee houses to make people sleepy so they buy more coffee?”

Beverly leaned into his chest to muffle her laughter. _How the fuck could anyone want to hurt Bev?_ She sighed. “I wish we could stay together.”

For a moment, he’d forgotten how fast a week or four could vanish, that he'd be saying goodbye to everyone before he could blink twice. It was just more cruel shit they’d done nothing to deserve. Maybe it would have been kinder if they’d all gone their separate ways sooner. He wouldn’t have had to deal with knowing he’d never have the balls to touch her and hug her and kiss her cheeks like the others did. _Why? Why am I like this?_ “Yeah. It sucks.”

“I might be able to fit in a suitcase if it’s big enough.” He snorted, mouth twitching a little. “We could go off in groups and switch every month so we wouldn’t get lonely.” Ben was finding himself closer and closer to crying in the middle of senior prom right in front of her like a bitch. “I’m losing my fucking mind, Ben.”

He snuffed all of it back, absently stroking the short waves of hair that didn’t fit up into her bun. “It’s okay. I am, too.” He wanted to say that he probably wouldn’t be able to adequately tell her how much he loved her in the next five, ten, twenty years, and that there was no way he’d ever get over her - even if he completely forgot who she was. “Are slow dances always this much of a bummer?”

“You’ve never slow danced before?”

Ben shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. A senior from track took him to prom as her date the year before, but she was more of a big sister to him. They didn’t want to get all cuddly because it would have been weird.

Beverly smiled up at him - the rare "oh shit she could do anything she wanted to me and I wouldn’t complain once" smile. Before he could catch himself, Ben did his best Eddie Kaspbrak Flustered Whine™. “Here, bend down.” He began to sweat - a _lot -_ but he obeyed her. “This is what you do during the good ones.” She placed her hand on the back of his neck, brushing her lips over his slightly open mouth.

He was sure he would be red in the face for the rest of his life. _Hey, man, is that sunburn? Haha, no, dude, I just got a kiss one time at prom, no biggie. God, kill me._

He hadn’t kissed her since his disgraceful little foul-up in the sewers. He couldn’t stop playing it over and over in his head and it was _awful, holy shit_. The timing couldn't have been worse. Ben needed a serious mental kick-start but he was so distracted by her freckles and the lights glinting off her lip gloss and the sheer luck of getting a second chance with her. He just wanted his total dipshit self to _move_.

Ben finally took her face in his hands and kissed her full on, so unexpectedly assertive that she yelped a little. It felt fine, it was good, _very good_. They fell into an effortless pattern. Beverly lead him gently, swiping her tongue against his, drawing him out, perfectly controlled and tight. Her hands traveled down from grabbing at his hair to slide beneath his collar, curiously skimming over the very top of his chest and shoulders. He _really_ wanted to do the same to her, but more, further, _harder_. Something intense stirred between them - kisses deepening, touch sliding lower, bodies pressing flush together. He wanted to do _everything_ to her and he didn’t give a single fuck about who was watching.

Ben abruptly broke away from her, backing off a few paces.

Beverly shakily smudged her lip gloss back into place while he wiped his mouth on his arm. Both looked like shamed dogs, staring hard at the floor.

“Less…less of a bummer, right?”

He swallowed hard. “Y-yeah. Way.” _Get it together, Ben, don’t make it weird_. The DJ’s perfect timing saved his ass with an overplayed 1994 jam, already a one-hit wonder - still good, though. “We’re never going to escape this song, are we?”

Beverly was already wiggling around on beat. “What, you don’t like it when disc jockeys play the same thing 24 hours a day?”

“No, I totally want a song from when I was 17 following me to my deathbed.”

Beverly snorted. “Want me to go ask him to play "Step By Step"?”

Ben froze. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Come on, don’t lie to yourself! You LOVE New Kids on -” Beverly was almost shouting while Ben meekly waved his hands in front of her face, knowing he couldn’t cover her mouth. “- the Block.”

“I will _leave_!”

“ _Please don’t go Beeeeeen! You would ruin my -”_

“ _NO_!”

He could have died from embarrassment, but he would have died happy - at prom of all places. Showing up here was insane. They were all insane. Bill was insane for suggesting it, Ben was insane for agreeing to it, and Beverly was insane for making out with him. He would leave for college, maybe never see any of them again, but he’d never completely forget the weirdest night of his life and, hopefully, her.

Beverly was Beverly: down on one knee, reciting New Kids on the Block lyrics as if they were gospel.

Ben was Ben: doubled over laughing, in need of a stiff drink, and hopelessly, mortifyingly in love with her.

 

 

****

 

**2**

Prom was happening. That meant it was going to be over. And that was the only solace Mike could take in his current situation. He was so looking forward to ditching, just another hour and he'd dip. The Derry High Prom Committee would be out for his blood on Monday, but, oh, they could fuck right off. The weeks of planning and setup that went into the event took so much out of him that he felt absolutely no desire to prom. Mike was losing his mind to boredom, but there were probably fun parts of prom going on. He could be mingling with his halfway decent teammates, talking about something other than football. Sad as it was, he needed people to hang out with after the others left. _You're Derry now, Mike, start acting like it_.

“I saw the mob back there, Mike. What the hell was up with that?”

Austin was a sophomore, widely known as "Gay Kid" for reasons one would expect. While a young man with such a nickname would usually be a target for every form of bullying, Austin Martinez had an advantage. The entire football team (Coach Baxter included) owed him a life debt. It was even in writing. After being attacked almost daily in middle school, he lucked out a few weeks into his freshman year. The team was in the regional semi-finals for the first time in 11 years, but they got screwed at the last minute. Their kicker was deemed "ineligible" because of his low GPA - one point short. Austin, minding his own freshman business, happened to overhear a clandestine chat between two teachers. It turned out a few members of the faculty had been systemically lowering the grades of students they didn’t like. Things naturally wrapped up quick because football was involved. The guilty teachers were fired and Derry High’s kicker was back in. The second the team found out their savior was a shrimpy freshman who narced on some teachers, they went bonkers. Austin thus became untouchable.

“Beverly was up.”

Austin looked ill. “I didn't know she had such a dedicated following.”

“You don’t even wanna know...Thanks for blasting the gym out, by the way.”

“Oh yeah, no problem! It was bring-down o’clock out there. Eugh.”

Mike snapped his fingers, “speaking of Bev. She wanted to know if you have _Doolittle_ with you.”

Austin giggled, looking very pleased with himself. “I bet I can guess which song.” Of course he knew. Austin met Beverly in the A.V. Room one day and they immediately bonded over their shared love of Depeche Mode. Whenever they got to talking about music it almost took a fire hose to break them up. “I’ll go check.” He disappeared under his very complicated setup of electronics and turntables.

“Mike -” Eddie jogged up, his loafers slapping against the hardwood floor. “Oh, god.” He panted. “There you are!”

 _Oh no, please, they’ve only been here 15 minutes._ “What happened? Is everything okay?”

“No, your legs are a fucking foot longer than mine,” he wheezed, whispering something about stamina.

“Oh, thank god,” Mike breathed. “I was worried he did something stupid already.” _The proverbial he, the Trashmouth._

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I wasn’t about to stick around and find out.” Not even an hour in his snappiest formal wear and he was already sick of Richie.

Mike had to wonder what life would be like for one without the other. Miserable? Wonderful? As hard as he tried, he could never figure out how to describe their friendship - bizarre didn’t even begin to cover it. The first time everyone hung out together was great because he realized they had things in common besides getting ass-kickings on the regular. They sat around for hours, easily conversing without a single awkward pause. They talked about comics and music, trading recommendations and jokes like they’d been friends for years. Then there was Richie and Eddie, trapped in a perpetual comedy bit like a couple of muppets. No one else paid them much attention so Mike felt a little bad for laughing, but he eventually went numb to it as well.

There was a soft _eh-hem_ to his left. “Oh, sorry - Austin, Eddie. Eddie, Austin.”

Eddie waved faintly, staring at Austin for a moment - probably because he looked a bit like Stan with darker skin and straight hair. Mike could tell Eds hadn’t planned on socializing with another person.

“What’s good, new friend? Come sit!” Austin said brightly, scooting a little crate out between their chairs.

Eddie gave it a dubious look. “I’m gonna have a waffle pattern on my ass.”

He cackled. “Mike - your friends are _hilarious_!”

The _"who the fuck is this guy?_ " look Eddie gave him was perfectly timed and executed. He was born and would die the perfect double act "straight man".

“You can just take the other chair. Something tells me Mrs. Denton isn’t coming back.”

“Sure, what has she done for _me_ lately anyway?” He shrugged his vest off and draped it over the back of the chair. “So, um, what are you doing up here?”

 _Ha, good question_. There was definitely ballot collection, which he was doing, but the vice principal walked off half an hour in and Mike was fending for himself. He knew he was supposed to help her with things. He still didn’t know what those things were. “Uhh. Wanna vote for prom king and queen?”

“Gee willickers. Do I ever.” Before he could actually say "no", Mike passed him a pen and two paper slips. Austin demanded that he put him in for both. The resigned look on Eddie's face reminded Mike of an exhausted father who’d given up on trying to wrangle his kids. “What’s your last name?”

“Martinez!”

He handed the papers back, marked with his distinctive scrawl. His handwriting got sloppy after he broke his arm and it never really improved. “Good luck, Austin Martinez.”

“Thanks, Eddie! I’m gonna go get to writing a _fire_ acceptance speech.” He blew several kisses at no one and scooted away.

“Sorry for the social overload,” Mike said, watching him rubbing his temples. He’d put him at about a 7 on the Eddie Kaspbrak Stress Scale™. The group had invented way too many Eddie-isms and none of them knew what would happen if he found out. “Need me to get you some water?”

“No, I’ll be okay. It’s just...other stuff. Piling up.” Mike leaned his elbow against the table and gave Eddie the "talk to your friend Mike Hanlon" look. He was the last person adopted into The Losers Club but he had probably aided in the most advice talks and venting sessions. It wasn’t like he had many folks his age (or species) to talk to as a kid so he was fine with it. “I’m just really nervous about being here, like - out in the open like this.”

“The last four years have been tough on you, man.”

“No kidding. I feel like such a coward, though. None of you guys are scared and I’m always hiding and,” he gestured a little frantically, “tweaking out.” It was no secret that Eddie was the only guy in their circle who still got bullied. They all carried trauma from the past, but the conventional schoolyard torment never really stopped for him. Eddie was still one of the toughest guys Mike knew. “But I’m with you, so I shouldn’t be, right?”

“Not really. You have every reason to be nervous - it’s what you’re used to feeling. You came, though. That took guts.”

He chewed on his lip, staring down at his hands. “It feels stupid, not gutsy. I mean, I just wanna go home before I start getting shouted at like Bev.” He grabbed handfuls of his pant legs. “No way I can take that and keep going like she does.”

If anything made Eddie look like a kid, it was his voice and body language whenever he was down on himself. Watching him smoke a bunch of other guys at track meets couldn’t have been a greater contrast. Mike had to learn about having confidence real quick the second he transferred in. The football team wanted to know how growing up on a farm and being homeschooled translated to athletic talent, so it was step up or step out for him. Most of the team doubted him, some were plain offended by the idea, and a few of them hated him for the exact same reasons as Henry Bowers. But Mike had survived a complete psychopath _and_ a shape-shifting sewer demon. High school politics were nothing.

He briefly wondered if Eddie would have more confidence if he remembered the sewers. _Or would it just break him?_

“Wanna know what I thought of you when you guys came to save my ass from that kid Henry Bowers?”

Eddie puffed out a very dismayed breath. “Holy shit, I forgot _he_ even existed. He moved away, right?”

Mike shrugged. If he had to bring him right to the edge of the bad stuff, he would, but it was touchy. “Pretty sure. But seriously.” Eddie sighed through his nose. “I thought, _holy shit! I had no idea a kid wearing a fanny pack could have this much fight in him_!” He laughed at that and Mike grinned. “No joke - you were halfway across that damn creek and they could’ve grabbed you right out, but you weren’t even scared of them, Eddie. You didn’t look scared for a _second_.”

“I was 13, Mike.”

“We _all_ were - dude, you didn’t see yourself at track meets. I’m serious, look at me.” Eddie rolled his eyes and gave Mike a sullen look. “You know why that coach fucked you over?” The sullen look turned skeptical, a little ashamed. “He’s a bully. Flat out. He went here, y’know. Baxter knew him, and that asswipe went for guys just like you - guys who don’t know how good they really are. Know why?”

“Why?” He grumbled.

“Because he’s never been very good at anything. He wants to feel like he’s better than other people so he picks on kids with actual talent.” Eddie opened his mouth to protest. “Nuh-uh. You were one fast motherfucker and I can find the records to prove it. And shit, did your asthma ever bother you?” Of course it didn’t! He was happy to be running his ass off away from his mother - free of illness, free of weakness, free of manipulative tears! Eddie Kaspbrak was _happy_ and Mike saw what those two years in track did for him.

Eddie had forgotten about throwing his childhood fanny pack away. It killed Mike that he forgot standing up to his mother for them, and himself. But those who remembered were too scared to tell him because of what could come with it. _Two steps forward, two steps back_.

Eddie shook his head. “But what does this have to do with the guys who corner me in the bathroom? I’m not asthmatic to them, I’m some gay pervert and they beat me up for it.”

“What, you give them permission?”

“Mike. I don’t fight people. Look at me.”

“You did when you were a foot shorter.” He kicked the shit out of a clown at least.

“Are you kidding me!” Eddie was glaring to the point of blindness. “What, I should’a started fighting people in the bathroom? Have some teacher come in and not believe a word I say about self-defense? Get fucking suspended or expelled and be stuck at home with my _mother_ all day?”

Mike sighed. He meant everything he said, but getting through to someone as bullshit stubborn as Eddie Kaspbrak was an undertaking and their high school prom probably wasn’t the place to try it. “Just think about what I said, okay?” Mike took his flask from the hidden pocket in his jacket, unscrewed the cap and took a split-second shot. _Driving me to drink._

Eddie raised his dark eyebrows, eyeing him shrewdly. “What’s in there?”

“Mid-shelf whiskey.”

He pulled a face. “Nevermind.”

Austin nudged him and flashed his jacket open like a Black Market dealer, revealing an identical flask tucked into the lining. “It’s just Prosecco and lemonade, don’t worry.”

“Hm. Okay.” Eddie took a brief swig, noisily licking the inside of his mouth a few times before taking another. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had reduced himself to sneaking his mom’s boxed wine after a particularly rough day.

“Okay, okay, give it back, ya lush, I gotta be here all night,” Austin said. He capped and swiped it back into his pocket.

“Is that just lemonade mix in there?”

“I’m not about to water it down, Eddie. Desperate times.”

“Thanks, Martinez.” He smiled a little as Austin wheeled himself away. “Sorry for being such a dick. You’re good people, Mike Hanlon.”

Mike threw his hands up. “If all it took was a little _fizzy wine_ to get you straight, I swear to _god_ \- all this time!” Eddie broke into hysterics and Mike had to fight back his own.

He would probably grumble at Mike for saying it, but Eddie really was a little brother to him. He knew he could never really refuse him, and that he’d drop everything, at any time, if Eddie needed him. He also knew that he would blame himself if anything ever happened to him. He still remembered how scared he was when Eddie broke his arm. He was pedaling like a madman, Eddie's legs were dangling over the sides of his bike basket, and it felt like they were having the same heart attack. They weren't that close yet but he sort of knew they were his family that day. Mike couldn’t protect everyone, but it never stopped him from trying. He couldn’t take losing anyone else.

“Guys! C’mere!” Austin frantically waved them both over to the edge of his booth. The three of them piled awkwardly on top of each other, catching a decent view of the crowd. “That’s Beverly, right? With the tall guy who looks like he’s about to keel over?”

“Ben.” Mike and Eddie said in unison.

Mike knew Ben hadn’t kissed Beverly since that one time in the sewers (which was still kind of hilarious to him) and it really showed. He had the telltale "Beverly is talking to me" stiffness in his shoulders and, Mike noted, one hell of a schoolgirl blush.

“ _No way, she looks so cute_ \- I mean, she just -” Austin gasped as Ben swept her up into a passionate, _mature_ kiss. “Oh my _GOD_!”

They watched the pair in guilty fascination - until Ben's hand dropped down past her waist.

“Okay, we shouldn’t be watching this.” Mike said quickly.

Eddie was completely transfixed, looking like a man lost in the desert.

“Eddie, _no_.”

His body jolted a little. “Oh yeah. Right.” He cleared his throat and Austin shot Mike a look.

As someone who had infinite love for his friends but little interest in sex, Mike was picking up on an odd vibe. It had been going on since they all began to hit puberty, but it was definitely building up to something that night. He’d tended an entire flock of sheep for fuck’s sake, he had to be observant. He was almost certain he was going to be the only person who would come out of prom without getting jumped and that was fine by him. (He was probably still good from last August at the quarry. Stan was a straight-up mess. It wasn’t bad, though.)

“Welp. Guess I’m up.” Mike stood up and stretched before tossing his suit jacket over the back of his chair. “Do me a favor and don’t play any slow shit.”

“Priority song requests!” Austin smirked. “Taking advantage of those friendship perks, huh?”

He waved his hand under his chin. “You must be this tall to slow dance with Mike Hanlon.” Eddie snapped his fingers in disappointment.

“Hmm, point taken, you big, sexy tree.” Austin said.

Mike snorted and shook his head. _What a weird kid._

Eddie smiled up at him while Austin whooped a laugh. “Have fun.”

Something about his face was heartbreakingly innocent. Mike smiled back. Eddie was able to calm down and that was enough.

“Hey, no worries - we always have fun.”

As he walked, he could faintly hear _"What’s your favorite Madonna song?"_ followed by _"Are you shitting me!?"_

 

 

****

**3**

_“Hey.”_

_“No one else coming down today?”_

_“Probably not.”_

_Mike Hanlon laid his bicycle in a pile of brush, swiveling the handlebars to keep the over-sized basket on the front from bending. The smell of raw mutton still clung to his hands and clothes - it made him a little sick. He clambered down the river bank to rinse the dried blood from his hands. He wiped them off on his pants once the smell was bearable. It was a nice day: white, fluffy clouds, mild heat, low humidity - good for swimming even though he wouldn’t feel like sloshing around in water anytime soon. Mike took a seat next to Beverly in the wet, sandy dirt. Everyone decided to gather there once they were ready. When Mike realized Beverly had been going by herself, he started meeting her down by the river every day. He supposed they were both ready - to see their friends, to talk, to figure out what to do next. The others were keeping to themselves, trying to sort through their waning memories - or trying to forget them altogether. If he could, Mike would have been doing the same, but the farm didn’t stop for him. He had daily chores and deliveries to make. Mike looked evil right in the face, hit it a few times, then got right back to work. Every day by noon he was coasting around town on his bike, his basket empty. The lingering smell of humid blood bothered him now; long after he handed off the final parcel. The deliveries went a lot quicker than they used to, at least. He wouldn’t have to hide behind trash cans or look over his shoulder every five minutes - the paper assured him of that. It was right on the front page, all capital letters:_

_DERRY SERIAL KILLER FOUND AMONG REMAINS OF VICTIMS._

_The sewers picked Henry Bowers up and swept him out, all the way up to Juniper Hill._

_The newspaper on his kitchen table seemed like forbidden knowledge. Mike felt like he was never meant to see it because, until that morning, he truly thought he had killed Henry Bowers. His eyes didn’t melt out of his head like the bad guy from Indiana Jones, but it was unreal to him, enough to drive him crazy. He tasted violence when he sent Henry plummeting down that well and the paper didn’t make it go away. Ever since they crawled out of the sewers, he spent nights lying awake and thinking about what he’d done. It was self-defense, but he was 13, and he knew what it felt like to kill another human being. Mike Hanlon didn’t kill people, though. And he never would because nothing was worth becoming a murderer. Nothing was worth becoming Henry Bowers._

_Beverly had the same sickness trapped inside of her, he knew. But she didn’t remember smashing a 12 pound block of porcelain over her father’s head. It didn't kill him outright, according to Bill, but the heavy bleeding eventually did. The detectives tacked him onto Henry’s list of victims; hush-hush. Alvin Marsh: registered, cremated, buried, lost to Derry's courthouse records._

_She continued staring into the current, resting her chin on her knees. Mike knew Beverly had forgotten about the clown dragging her into the sewers - she had forgotten what it felt like to kill. He hoped it would stay that way._

_“Talk to anybody?” Her voice was quiet._

_“Saw Bill a couple days ago.” Beverly blinked a few times, seeming to perk up for a moment. “He’s okay - kinda tired, but…” he trailed off, shrugging. “Guess it’s just gonna be us for a while.”_

_Beverly was still for a moment, hesitating. A light breeze lifted her short bangs out of her eyes. She turned to him then, frowning like she was about to cry. “I feel like I did something horrible, Mike.”_

 

Beverly remembered the day she first saw Mike in the hallway. English class had just let out and the flow of students was threatening to cramming her into her own locker - par for the course. As was the tradition in the hallway, Sally Mueller pulled her signature two-for-one. She smacked Beverly's overstuffed binder out of her hands and followed up with a nice, hard shoulder-check. Beverly stood watching her binder puke notebook paper into her locker and all over her boots. High school teachers didn’t give a single fuck about bullying so there was no excuse for being late to class. Mueller had all but slapped her with a detention. They should have started paying her for it.

She slammed her locker and a light shuffling sound caught her attention. Beverly turned her head, expecting to see Sally grinding her homework into the filthy hallway tiles with her heeled jelly sandals. But he was the opposite of the richest girl in Derry - tall, black, plainly dressed, a little work-worn, _Mike Hanlon_. Mike Hanlon on his knees gathering up armfuls of her loose papers.

Beverly nearly slipped and busted her ass dashing over to him, crashing right into his arms and sending the papers flying.

She always related to Mike. Both were loners for the longest time - vulnerable and misunderstood with nobody to open up to. There were a few points in time when she had a group, but they didn't last for one reason or another. Actual friendships, real stuff beyond sitting together and talking about boys, never took. No one would believe her, but she played with Gretta and Sally when they were little kids - Victor Criss, too. They ended up hurting her, of course, but she considered them good friends at one point. To Beverly's knowledge, though, Mike had no one.

Sometimes they exchanged awkward glances while picking up groceries at the supermarket. On occasion, she would catch him zipping down the street on his bicycle on her way home from school. He didn't seem lonely, but he never looked happy, either - Mike always looked serious. It didn't do him any favors considering how handsome he was when he smiled. She wanted to talk to him, ask him what homeschool was like, maybe even be friends. But she could never drum up the courage. She felt like a coward watching the Bowers Gang chasing him down. Mike wasn’t a weakling by any means, but he never stood a chance whenever they caught him - especially when Patrick Hockstetter, that actual fucking psychopath, tagged along.

As much as she wished she didn’t, Beverly remembered The Bowers Gang - far, far too well. How _could_ she forget after the way they harassed her? How could she forget the way Henry looked at her? How could she forget Mike's shiners and split lips catching her eye over the produce displays? She knew Henry was locked up, and all she had to say about it was _"good riddance"_. The world was a better place without him in it. But, fucked up as it was, Beverly wouldn’t be dancing with Mike Hanlon at her senior prom if it weren’t for Henry _fucking_ Bowers.

 _God, what a fucked up existence_.

None of that mattered because she was 8 years old again, dancing around in her room to Madonna. But now she didn’t have to wear headphones or silently mouth the lyrics or expect a beating for touching a boy. She didn’t have to worry.

There was an elated giggle trapped in her chest while she danced with Mike. She felt like some happy kid overflowing with glee. They were holding hands and singing to each other, trying to keep straight faces because everything was good and hilarious. It was okay to pretend their pasts weren’t theirs for a minute. That was Beverly and Mike together: two orphans letting everything go.

“This is apparently Eddie’s favorite Madonna song,” he said during the pre-chorus.

Beverly clapped both hands over her mouth and nearly screamed into them. “I can totally see him lip-syncing in front of a mirror!”

“Will you please _check_ that excessively cute thought, Bev?”

“He’s probably really good at it!” She giggled. “Is he over there with Austin?”

They both stopped dancing and squinted over the swell of other students. Beverly stood on her tiptoes. Austin was bopping along comically, as expected. They could only see his hair, but Eddie was tossing about with the same enthusiasm, likely hitting every last word. Austin, still gesturing very Madonna-like, looked like he’d found a 20 in his coat pocket. Mike and Beverly dissolved into howling laughter.

“I can’t believe you were right!” His eyes flooded with hysterical tears. “Holy shit!”

("Catch Eddie Lip-syncing" shot to the top of Beverly’s bucket list.) “I’m so glad they’re friends now,” she hiccuped between laughs, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You should’ve seen Eddie’s face when I intro’d them. He was so ready to dip out on us.”

“Aw, poor Aussie. He’s such a good boy!”

“I mean, they’re obviously cool now.” Mike snickered a little, “I did figure something out, though.” Beverly raised her eyebrows. “Get a little Prosecco in him and he’s chill.”

“ _Prosecco_?!” She cried. He was smaller than the others, but Eddie could drink like a frat boy. Beverly couldn’t imagine him kicking back and sipping white wine, not after the _things_ she’d seen. “He just needed _Prosecco and Madonna_ to start having fun. I can’t...”

“I don’t get it, either.” The music kicked seamlessly into a Eurodance track and Mike smiled, shaking his head.

Beverly realized, with some panic, that she’d never danced to house music before. “What do I do?!” He shot her a questioning look. “How do I dance to this?”

Mike Hanlon had never looked more like a college professor in his life. Beverly half expected him to yank on a string and start whacking a pointer stick all over a pull down chart. “Bass lines exist for a reason. If there’s too much vocal or synth you basically have to be high or something - that’s why you need something consistent.” Beverly stood completely still, speechless. “It’s gonna tell you how fast or slow you dance - guide what _you_ do. Make sense?”

“So I just...do whatever as long as it fits.”

“Yup.”

It was no surprise that Mike would geek out over European dance music. Beverly had heard his conversations with Austin about the intricacies of synthesizer riffs, or how a crap bass rhythm could "totally kill a house jam". Austin had eclectic taste, but Mike was almost unpredictable. His tape deck was always changing - Public Enemy one day, Creedence the next, Nirvana out of nowhere. Beverly's taste in music wasn’t narrow but club music, especially dancing to it, was an enigma to her. There was no _dancing_ to heavy metal, there was neck-snapping and shoving and some aggressive form of tapping your feet. This was an entirely different kind of chaos - different, but surprisingly do-able.

Mike wasn’t wrong; she didn’t have to remember steps or memorize how her partner moved. It was fluid, guided solely by music. They could join together or dance apart, no leaders, no followers. It was somehow cleansing even though she was sweating more than she had all evening.

Beverly decided she would absolutely go clubbing with Mike, no questions asked. They’d never get the chance, but it was a fun idea.

Four minutes wasn’t long enough.

Five years wasn’t enough.

After Mike’s grandpa passed away, he hopped between Bill and Stan’s houses for a short time. Expensive repairs and low yield sent the farm into foreclosure. Mike wasn't exactly left with a comfortable nest egg. He had no family in the area but refused to move away even though he felt guilty about intruding on whoever he stayed with. None of them wanted him to leave, of course, but it reminded Beverly of when she decided she wanted to move back - why stay in a place that only reminded you of everything you’d lost? It struck her as odd that Mike would change the subject every time the idea came up in discussion.

When he finally got his own place junior year, she started hanging out after school before he went off to work. They would sit in his tiny living room until the sun set. Mike did his homework and Beverly played him songs she’d written, or folded his laundry in spite of his protests. They were the same age but they couldn’t have grown more unlike each other. It was crazy to look back on how often they felt "the same" as kids. It was why she hated thinking about what she was going to do after high school. Having a shot at becoming a musician meant leaving Derry and the thought always brought her back to Mike. He would be all by himself and god only knew how often any of them would come back to visit him. Forgetting him terrified her - the guilt alone was enough to drive her crazy. They wouldn’t be Beverly and Mike together anymore, just Mike, left behind in Derry.

“That’s all I get, Bev.” Mike sighed and let go of her hands (which were still ridiculously tiny compared to his). “My time is up.”

Another upbeat dance song started up and it all felt too short, like the dance floor had dropped out from under her. “No! We were having fun!”

“I know, but I have to go get Trashmouth now.” Beverly almost screamed. Dancing with Richie, _in public_ , was going to be an actual disaster she may never recover from. Mike laughed sympathetically. “Is he that bad at dancing?”

The correct answer was no; he was actually pretty good. They used to dance together a lot, and he handled her very well for someone his age, but he’d usually go off-book and fuck it up. “No, he’s just a lunatic.”

“What? Not, _Richie_.” Mike chuckled. “Seriously, though. It was fun. Glad we got to do this together.” Beverly felt like crying. “See ya later.”

“Wait!” He looked back at her, a little startled by the yip in her voice. “I wanna do this again - not prom, but...you know. If we get a chance.”

Mike’s shoulders shook with soft laughter, smiling. “Me too.”

The crowd seemed to part for him as he walked away, like some kind of fashionable Moses. Mike Hanlon: the only loser still granted any respect.

Beverly caught herself dancing again, picking the track apart in her head.

 

“Where’s Richie?”

Stan huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. He looked a little weary-eyed even though the rest of him was still pristine. “Not where he’s supposed to be.”

“Yes I am, liar.”

Stan turned in his chair and glared back at him.

Mike rolled his eyes. He understood that Richie and Stan had turbulent spats - that was their thing - but it was so damn melodramatic. Fights turned into natural disasters and there was always a cleanup afterward. Mike almost wished they would just go outside and get into a fist fight - they always seemed to chill out after those. It wasn’t like they had much time left together, so why spend it fighting?

Ben leaned across the table with a candid smile on his face. “You were out there awhile, dude.”

“Not by choice.” Richie collapsed into a chair, blinking his eyes wide like he had a migraine - probably did. “The suit is cursed.”

Mike noticed Stan smirk a little. “Wait, what happened?”

“I was deceived by a beautiful woman, Mike. A very boring, eager…” He grunted, looking nauseous. “...woman.”

“Well, Rich, you’re supposed to be dancing with a very lively and _patient_ woman, so I’d get off my ass if I were you.” Mike said.

Richie, trying to look as dignified as possible, rose to his feet and began dusting himself off.

"Of course he'd leave her hanging when he's always jumping on her like a fucking spider monkey." Stan muttered.

"Jealous, are we?" Richie said loftily. Stan lined the sole of his shoe up with Richie’s ass and heaved him forward. “What the _fuck!_ Not cool, Staniel!”

Mike turned to Ben. “Just come get me when we’re done, okay?” He nodded. “And good luck. With...everything. Seriously.”

Thank god for Ben.

 

 

****


	5. Life of leisure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Stan and Eddie are bonding.  
> \- Richard vs. Margaret  
> \- "The one where Bev dances with Richie and the seniors of ‘95 finally cash in their bets"  
> \- The floor is made of thirst. Don't touch the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of psych/emotional abuse and possessiveness - be warned.
> 
> There's also some very brief referenced below-the-belt foolin'. 
> 
> Stan and Eddie don’t have a whole hell of a lot of interaction in the novel (same with the movie, unforch) but there's still fun stuff to work with so GUESS WHAT. Their interactions in this context are actually building up into the continuation of this fic, which is E as fuck, so uh, yeah. Takin’ it further.
> 
>  
> 
> {{Disclaimer: I do not condone going off ur meds even though it is presented as a positive thing in this context. It can be very dangerous and it's better to tell ur doc or get a second opinion if they suck. Easier said than done in the US, but here we are.}}

 

 

**1**

_Deep breaths. You're fine. You don't need an inhaler. You're fine._

Leaving the safety of the DJ booth was a difficult decision, but Eddie felt guilty, and maybe a little cowardly, for hiding. He also kind of wanted to make sure Ben and Stan hadn’t murdered Richie ( _kind_ _of_ ).

The good feelings he’d built up around Austin and Mike seemed to dissipate as he walked. He was feeling exposed again and, after talking with Mike, started thinking about the end of summer. Eddie realized he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. Everyone else had aspirations or college lined up, but Eddie still didn't really know who the hell he was. He definitely wanted to go off on his own, he just couldn’t picture himself anywhere but with his mom. It wasn't just a terrifying thought, it was a potential reality.

He _really_ should’ve snuck booze in his jacket.

Eddie had some trouble finding their table. After a few minutes of searching in the dark, he found Stan sitting by himself. He was lying stretched across a couple of chairs, most likely asleep. Bill obviously left early, and Richie was probably with Bev, but Ben was missing.

Eddie slipped into the chair next to Stan's top half. Sitting alone with a sleeping person would be awkward. But Stan looked tired. But he didn't want Stan to think he'd been watching him sleep or something. _Cripes_.

“Heeeyyyy,” he said awkwardly.

Stan craned his neck back to look at him. Eddie wasn't sure if he had actually been sleeping or not. “Oh. Hi.”

“Did Ben go somewhere?”

“Just missed him.”

Eddie bumped into Stan a lot, especially when he used to spend more time with Ben. They didn’t hang out, though. He briefly considered the possibility of awkward conversation with _Stan_ and thought about making an excuse to leave. He was still wondering if Stan had been awake, hearing him shuffling around and stuff. _Why am I freaking out about this? This is stupid!_ Stan seemed to get tired of the silence and went back to what he was doing. He stretched and Eddie’s stomach did a little flip. It reminded him of Ben's lazy charm even though Stan was a bit different - languid and cat-like. His suit pants clung to his waist nicely and Eddie followed the slow, hypnotic roll of his hips. He started thinking about how Ben's shirt would ride up while they did sit-ups and Eddie would catch a glimpse of the trail of dark hair that led down into his briefs. _Enough! Stop!_ But he saw Stan with his shirt off last summer. He wouldn't at first, but when he finally did, Eddie looked right at his waistband. He thought, at the time, _the carpet doesn't match the drapes! God help me!_

Eddie was about to start screaming at his horrible thoughts. It would be wisest to excuse himself and go back to Mike. He could tell Mike about his shameful thoughts and Mike could tell him to say a few Ave Marias or whatever, and then his problems would be over. _Hail Mikey, full of good advice, I won't snub your gross liquor anymore. I just want to get wasted and forget any of this happened_.

Then, in a moment of clarity and resilience, Eddie spoke. “So...how ya holdin’ up?”

Stan settled back against his chair and snorted. “I’m alive.”

"Oh." Eddie's brain went quiet. Something was going on with Stan. He was projecting so much calm that it felt like anything but - and it wasn't just him, it was the space around them as well. Eddie could almost hear it buzzing, like a shorted out light. “I know what you mean. I feel like I’m going crazy in here.” Stan didn't reply. “So, uh,” _Hoo boy, here it comes._ “Has it been okay over here?” Stan fixed him with a look. He had lovely green eyes, usually closer to hazel, but now they were pale and sharp - again, cat-like. He seemed to be fighting back a smile. "Message received."

Stan Uris looked so different from him that Eddie caught himself staring more often than not. He had fair features, almost like Beverly's, but with a darker, warmer skin tone. And _boy_ was he was tall and svelte as all get-out. Eddie was pale and had dumb, thick, dark eyebrows and stupid dark hair that always stuck up in the back. He’d also started getting pudgier since he’d stopped running. _Ugh, why am I a creature? Why can’t I be fucking gorgeous and masculine like Stan? He’s just -_

“Eddie, are you _flustered_ or something?”

"Absolutely not. I am totally good."

Stan grinned and laced his hands together behind his head. “I should’ve gone up with you. This is a table of mistakes.” His grin faded. “This chick came up and asked Rich to dance earlier. He was gone for like, half an hour.”

Eddie drew back a little. “Are you kidding?” Stan pressed his lips together and shrugged. "Why?"

“Ben was _right there_ , too.”

“No way! I’d go for Ben in a heartbeat!” Stan raised an eyebrow and Eddie blushed furiously. “Y-you know, if I was her. No contest.” It was the truth, though. It wasn't like he didn’t find Richie attractive in his own way, but _Richie_ sure as hell never carried him to the nurse’s office when he twisted his ankle. He never really made his heart do that little _pitter-patter_ thing, either. Richie Tozier felt more like a heart attack. Eddie was also still annoyed about the “stool” comment from earlier.

“Hm. Trashmouth has his merits.” Eddie half-shrugged, fiddling with his hands in his lap. His brain kind of went off the rails and he started picturing Richie and Stan checking out each other’s _merits_ . _Oh god, no._ “Looks damn good in a suit.” _I know. Can we please change the subject?_ “You would, too.” He paused. “I like your vest, though.”

“I look like a butler.”

“Some of us are into that.”

 _Jesus freakin’ christ, is Stan always this freakin’ horny?_ “Kinda sucks that we’re the last two, huh?” He seemed to consider it, giving Eddie a slightly shrewd look. “Bevvie’s probably gonna be tired. That’s like, an hour.”

“Are you a virgin, Eddie?”

Eddie nearly flipped his chair - he may as well have pulled a gun on him. “WHAT?!”

Stan’s knowing smile was most unnecessary. “Just making sure.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean!?” _That’s it, that does it. I’m leaving._

“Nothing.” Completely cool - Stan was completely fucking cool about it. _Has he lost his fucking mind!?_

Eddie sat there sputtering for a moment, watching him idly gazing up at the ceiling. _He’s fucking insane_. _He’s fucking insane and I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel about it_. He ran a hand through his dark hair and cleared his throat. “What, am I the only one or something?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Stan heaved a sigh. “I was messing with you. Sorry...this place is getting to me. How’s Mike doing up there?”

 _This is vertigo? Am I experiencing vertigo?_ “A-at least a little tipsy.”

“Good for him.”

“Austin kind of looks like you, but...Puerto Rican.”

“So I’ve heard,” he chuckled.

There was an awkward silence. Eddie wanted to scream again. It wasn’t like they never talked or didn’t have anything in common, they just weren’t used to each other. Their conversations didn't have the same easy flow Eddie kept up with Ben, or even Richie. The most they’d ever really interacted one-on-one was when they were drunk. Back when they were kids it was just the two of them and Bill (and Richie by 5th grade). They all played together, but if either of those two couldn’t hang out, Eddie and Stan usually stayed home. It pissed him off that it took him almost a lifetime to notice their friendship had basically gone nowhere. Stan Uris liked to watch birds when they were kids, and he was seriously hot, and he could kick Richie’s ass if he got mad enough. That was all Eddie could come up with on the spot. He didn't like the idea of never getting to work through what was actually there between them. It was one hell of a missed connection.

“Hey, Stan,” Eddie said. Stan replied with a quick, curious hum, looking off into the ceiling again. “When was the last time we hung out? Like, just you and me.”

Stan rubbed at his chin, his slim features drawn and pensive. He crossed and uncrossed his legs a few times before his eyes finally met Eddie’s. “I don’t know.”

“What the fuck.”

“Well, I _did_ carry your drunk little ass into the woods so you could pee last summer.” That particular memory was lost somewhere in the night he discovered cinnamon schnapps. None of the others really talked about it, but Eddie knew he went a little nuts and Ben wasn’t sober enough to wrangle him. _Whole lotta good the buddy system did_. He still felt awful about it. “You were climbing all over me flipping out about possums and shit. I think that was actually it - the last time we hung out."

“I’m really sorry about that," Eddie mumbled. "Seriously - it was shitty of me.”

Stan graced Eddie with a gentle smile. He looked a little like Beverly for a second - kind, and safe. “I just didn’t want you to die. Hiding your body would’ve been a real hassle.” _I take it back_. _This man is dangerous_. “And, you know, you kept trying to bite me.”

“I understand why no one told me.”

“It’s okay. I know you’d do the same for me.” He paused. “Even though I don’t really do the feral cat thing, I just get...y’know.”

Eddie remembered Stan and Mike disappearing for an excessively long time during their last trip to the quarry. “What, should I get a spray bottle or something?” Stan covered his mouth, shaking with giggles. “Airhorn?” He burst out laughing - it was a good look for him. “I can toss a blanket over you.”

“Oh, fuck me,” he sighed, wiping at his watery eyes. “We should do something when this is all over.”

“I don’t really do anything interesting, but...yeah. That’d be cool.” _Unless piña colada Slurpees on the hood of a tiny car happen to be your idea of a good time. Doubtful._

Stan drummed his fingers against his thigh, his eyes not leaving Eddie’s face. “I dunno. There’s a movie I actually want to see and I seriously doubt the others have any interest in it.”

“It isn’t _Die Hard_ , is it?”

“What? No!” He scoffed.

“ _Oh, thank god_. Stan. Do you know how many fucking times Rich and Bev dragged me to fucking _Die Hard: With A Vengeance_?” Stan cringed. “SIX times, I shit you not - _SIX_. If I ever hear “Summer in the City” again in my life, I will slit my neck open with a fucking butter knife.”

He placed a hand gently on Eddie’s shoulder. “What have they done to you?”

“I started bringing sleeping pills so I wouldn’t have to look at it,” he whispered.

“Gee, think they got the hint?”

“No. I don't.”

It was weird how they both grew up sticking to someone else. Eddie felt a little twinge of memory way in the back of his head. Stan had been a year behind them until middle school. _He was sick all the time as a kid, wasn’t he? It might have been first or second grade that he had to do over. God, what a thing to remember right now_.

That was what they had in common: sickness and ducking behind kids stronger than them. But Stan grew out of it.

_“Careful - your mom’s gonna shit if you come home smelling like a river.” He had a firm hold on Eddie’s upper arm. Stan helped him upright, steadied him, with an enigmatic half-smile on his face._

_Pat-pat_

“Hey.” His hand was soft on his cheek. “I’ll see ya, okay?”

Eddie shook himself a little. “Your turn?”

“Yeah.” He got to his feet - smiling the same as he did in Eddie’s memory of hopping the stream.

"Um, o-okay. Bye, then."

Stan shot him an amused glare. "You know I can just tell Bev to wait a minute if you wanna dance with me that badly."

"Oh my god, get the fuck out of here."

His throaty laugh faded as he disappeared into the crowd.

Eddie slumped over and smacked his head against the table a few times.

 

 

 

 

**2**

_If any given person in Derry, Maine was asked to describe Richie Tozier, a senior at Derry High School, they would most likely say that he_ “didn’t know when to keep his goddamn mouth shut ‘cause his parents didn’t spank him enough as a kid _”. According to his peers, he was either a_ “disgusting loser" _or a_ “total laugh riot _”. To his teachers, he was a_ “smartass-ed, burnout piece of shit who would never amount to anything."

_The bottom line was Richie Tozier, a senior at Derry High School, was never anything more than a joke. And nobody knew it better than him._

_Richie was very much an intelligent person, he just had a bit of trouble with self-control. By two and a half, he was embarrassing his mom wherever they went. He was constantly pointing out weird-looking people, sharing inappropriate observations, and telling every child and adult he met exactly what he thought of them. His father assured her that Richie was just precocious and would likely grow out of it._ “I certainly did, and I turned out fine.” _Still, Maggie didn’t marry a precocious little kid with an inappropriate sense of humor, she married a charming adult with a dental practice. She could deal with Went’s occasional bullshit. But Richie was her first child and she was terrified of failing as a parent._

_Having a rotten child was a common fear among adults in Derry. Children were reflections of their parents and once they lost control of them, they lost altogether. Little Richie Tozier was far from rotten, though. He knew he stressed his mom out, and he tried hard to behave and do what was expected of him, he was just never very good at it. It seemed that no matter what he did, his impulsive little brain acted on its own and got him into trouble. He hated it. And even though he was young, he started to hate himself as well._

_Everything changed for him one August morning in 1985. Richie was startled awake by the prattle of rain against his window. It was 8am and the sun should have been out, but the sky was pitch dark. He felt weird - that was the only way he could describe it at the time - and he had a headache because it felt like some kind of alarm was going off really loud inside of his brain. He started thinking - like, really thinking._

 

**_It’s hard to be good and sit still like a nice little boy, right?_ **

I guess it is. I can’t do it very well.

**_You’re smart, right? School is easy, right?_ **

School’s easy, that’s right. What are we getting at, anyway?

**_People aren’t very happy with you, are they?_ **

I feel like everyone’s tired of me.

**_Do they want to control you?_ **

What?

**_Because you can’t control yourself._ **

What?

**_They don’t let you talk to your friends a lot, huh?_ **

Yeah. I hate it. Stan’s mom doesn’t want him to talk to me anymore ‘cause he told her I said "fuck" real loud when I tripped on the blacktop.

**_Does he still want to be your friend?_ **

I don’t know. I hope so. Bill, too. He’s my friend from last year but his mom hates nonsense.

**_That isn’t fair, is it? Do you think those adults don’t know what to do with you?_ **

I didn’t think of that.

**_Think about it._ **

Okay.

 

_He didn't think that way again until some years later - in a sewer of all places._

_When Richie started 4th grade, he finally stopped frustrating himself to tears trying to sit still and keep quiet. He still did well in his classes, he was still an A student, but the punishments started rolling in. Monthly to weekly, weekly to daily, and daily to hourly on a really bad day. His teachers bitched to his parents, his mom watched him do his homework, he wasn’t allowed to talk or play with anybody, and it only made everything worse._

_Richie decided he hated school._

_Spending recess inside gave him time to think. For Richie, thinking was something like a fireworks display, only it never ended. He started getting tons of ideas about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Richie Tozier, a four-eyed, buck-toothed 4th grader at Derry Elementary School, came to the conclusion that he didn't need to bend over and take a shitty public education that he’d never use. It wouldn’t fix him any more than being trapped inside all by himself, forced to miss an entire year of his social life. He would never learn anything real from people who told him to_ “listen while I’m talking next time _” when he asked to hear something over again. There was no way in hell that writing the same sentence over and over would do anything for him other than improve his penmanship and give him a stronger grip. Adults truly didn’t know what to do with him. It would have been funny if they’d just given up and moved on, but it turned out there were plenty of other things adults would do to try and make him behave the way they wanted._

 _Richie wasn't surprised when his mom dragged him to a head doctor. He came home from school one day without stopping or getting sidetracked for once (which he was quite proud of) but before he could take one step through the front door, his mom told him to get in the car. They waited in an ugly wood-paneled room for one excruciating hour. There were scummy yellow tube lights on the ceiling and a dusty mounted television stuck on The Weather Channel. It gave him a headache. He sat as still as possible because he knew they were there because of school. His asshole teacher, the phone calls, the conferences, getting moved to the back of the classroom, no fucking recess - it was always school. Big kids could snap his glasses in half and break his nose but_ their _parents didn’t care - his did. Richie loved his mom and dad, he just couldn't make things easier for them. Maybe he used foul language a little too often and, yeah, he probably shouldn’t have ripped a loud fart noise every time his teacher bent over, but he still did his homework and never picked on his classmates. He didn't think he was bad enough to need a shrink. For all Richie knew, his teacher was still pissed at him for telling the class that there was a topless scene in_ _Sarah, Plain and Tall_ _. (It got everyone to read the damn book, the guy should have_ thanked _him.)_

“Your son is in danger of going from a straight A elementary student who can't control his childish impulses to a C and D middle schooler who _still_ won’t be able to control his childish impulses _," they said._ “You should really think about medication. _”_

_It was ugly at first. His mother acted more like a Bond villain than a parent. She forced him to swallow one bitter, yellow pill every goddamn day. She even went as far as checking the inside of his mouth. Once he got to school, Richie would immediately duck into the boys’ room. He’d lock himself in a stall, stick two fingers down into his throat, and throw up that one bitter, barely dissolved, yellow pill. He’d never forget standing there as the bell rang, watching that stupid pill fizzing in whatever the fuck he’d eaten that morning. It made him think of the voice he heard when he was little. Richie Tozier’s overloaded 10 year old brain quickly hit a breaking point and he decided to find a more permanent solution to his problem._

_It was a Saturday when Richie scaled the kitchen cabinets. He wasn't very sporty but he could be plenty athletic when it suited him. He scampered up like a monkey and snatched the pill bottle off the top of the fridge. The tablets rattled around inside of the bottle when his socked feet hit the kitchen floor. Richie didn't give it a second thought. He hauled ass down to the Kissing Bridge for a real live game of_ _Poohsticks. He dropped the yellow pills over the side of the bridge one-by-one, sending each tablet off down the river, cackling delightedly. Needless to say, his parents were pretty mad about it. They upped their game and Richie got really good at picking locks that spring. They started with locking the pills in their bathroom. Richie used his library card (for once) and jimmied the door open. His parents then resorted to combination locks on a medicine cabinet. Richie got creative with some paper clips. After that, they tried padlocks, and even a rim lock - none of them lasted very long. He had access to plenty of random junk, but it was Bill Denbrough who really saved his ass. His dad had an enormous workshop with plenty of stuff like locks and batteries and shit - Bill hooked him up. It turned into a game for him. Whenever he’d crack a new one, he’d pretend he was Sam Harmon and pedal off on his bike whistling "Auld Lang Syne"._

_Maggie Tozier started looking at her son like he was the devil._

_Richie never hated his mom - hell, he wouldn’t even want to be stuck with the Sisyphean task of raising him - but she was an obstacle. He continued to defy her as long as she kept trying to fix him._ “Nothing personal, ma," _he would have said. Richie couldn’t help himself so he just ended up with a mother who didn't know what to do with him. He wouldn’t take medicine, he wouldn’t do his homework if he didn’t feel like it, and he wouldn’t change for any fucking teacher for the rest of his school-going life. That was around the time he started smoking._

 _The odd thing was he kind of felt like he wasn’t entirely moving on his own. According to Stan:_ “birds just know where they’re going when they migrate even though they’re not looking down and checking a map every 5 seconds. _” Richie was always moving around and acting like he knew what he was doing - he didn't. He thought about it all the time. What did one part of him know that the other part didn’t?_

 _He still felt that way the moment everyone first compared their high school schedules. He wasn't sure if it was his fault or not, or if it was even a huge, terrible thing, but his friends were in advanced classes. He wasn't. Not a one. It didn’t ruin his life, it just felt like a crushing weight on his shoulders, as if someone (his mother) slammed it down there and stood over him, shouting_ “Go ahead! Keep embarrassing yourself and get left behind!”

 _By some freak stroke of luck, Richie_ didn't _get left behind._

 _He didn’t get along with Beverly when she first joined their group. It wasn’t because he believed the rumors about her or anything, he just didn’t trust her. For one thing, she was pretty, which was bad. She turned Bill into a total dope, which was obnoxious. She was also cool - very cool. That was the worst thing about Beverly Marsh. Richie thought Beverly Marsh was bad news bears and The Losers Club already had_ him _\- why would they need even more trouble? That was a false positive on his part. Still, she threatened his seniority so he felt justified in giving her a hard time. But she ignored him. It pissed him off. It pissed him off even more when he actually noticed the way the other guys looked at her - especially Eddie. He was just pathetic sitting there zoning out with his mesmerized little face, fiddling with the zipper on his fanny pack. Sure, Richie may have caught himself spacing out in her general direction once or twice, but he still hated her because the other guys wouldn’t listen to him and the only possible explanation was that he didn’t have tits and pretty green eyes. Richie Tozier hated Beverly Marsh, but they still hung out a lot because they liked a lot of the same things. She also let him bum her shoplifted cigarettes because she was actually really nice, and she also had good taste in music - but he still hated her._

_Then her piece of shit dad got killed and she moved away._

 

_It shouldn’t have depressed him as much as it did. There was a shitty, sick feeling in his stomach at first. Every time they all got together and tried to pretend there wasn't an empty spot in their circle, Richie felt a little like puking. But he eventually forgot about her._

_Bill called him the following spring to let him know Beverly had moved back from Portland. Words instantly tumbled out of Richie's mouth and he had no idea what he said or why, but they met her down at the Barrens that day. He was full of nervous energy for some reason and kept remembering arguing with her, and noticing how pretty her hair was and how her eyes got really bright whenever she was mad - her freckles, too, and the way she’d ball her fists up when he really got her going. It hit him that the six of them may have never seen her again and it felt so fucking awful because they_ needed _seven. It was right. Things were complete that way. It was why he hugged her so tight and dared to press his face against the bare skin of her shoulder and he was fucking 14 and she smelled like clean laundry. He didn't hate her anymore._

_Richie felt the same way sitting next to her in biology, sharing the bench out in the old baseball field, sitting on her bed, and he was fucking glad for it. He started feeling a different kind of love for the others and it answered questions he never knew he had. He’d spent his whole life fucking himself over, but something went right for him. He was still driven by his impulses, and he would probably never make his parents happy, but he still had his best friends. He still had them._

_It was all a freak stroke of luck._

 

 

 

 

**3**

_“Hey! Don’t start fucking your boyfriend over there, Beaverly!”_

_“That’s why she wore such a short dress!”_

_“Keep it in your pants, Tozier! Your dick’s gonna fall off!”_

Richie feigned despair while Beverly closed her eyes wearily. “We should move.”

_“SLUT!”_

He side-eyed that last one. “We don’t have to.” Richie turned his attention back to her and smiled easily. “I’m happy if you are.” There was a rare soft side of Richie Tozier and she almost wished she'd never seen it. _Don’t fucking start blushing, you’ll never hear the end of it_. Beverly grumbled a little. “Hey! Remember how we used to stay late and dance in the auditorium when we were cute little freshies?”

“Oh god.”

“Don't be like that. We were good.” They weren't _good_ , they were awkward freshmen. She remembered when the band kids almost caught them tangled up trying to do spins to a Benny Goodman tape he ganked from his nanna. “ _It swings_ ,” she said - according to Richie. “Look at me, Bev.” Richie gently took her chin, swiping his thumb dangerously close to her lower lip. _Oh, you son of a bitch._ The contact sent an uninvited shiver through her body. “I like doing stuff like this with you. I wanna do stupid shit like fuckin’...swing dancing to Dead Kennedys and singing duets and burning pancakes in your aunt's kitchen -”

“She's still mad. And you didn't burn them, they caught on fire -”

“Okay, I'll own up to that _even though_ I still don't understand how it happened. My point is -” he turned an ear toward the DJ booth and busted into a playful grin. “We're gonna fucking dance to Blondie and it's gonna be a _fucking good time_. How ‘bout it?”

She couldn’t remember whose idea it was to start lindy-hopping, or why the other agreed, but they were happy on that empty stage. They made a complete bastard of the style, but it was the kind of fun she never got to have as a kid. She wouldn't have many chances to have this kind of fun again. "You're a dope, Richie."

He snickered. "You're dancing with a dope at prom."

Richie was a total dope. And she trusted that dope. Dancing with him felt normal, so much that she stopped worrying about being dropped on her ass. He handled her amazingly, in fact. If Beverly had a free hand, she would have scratched her head. They were dancing to 142 beats per minute and, miracle of miracles, pulled off a tight Savoy swingout even though she was was _just_ remembering the steps. That had been the move they gave up on because of how dorky it looked if you did it wrong, but he was fine - great, even. _He really is a lunatic_.

“Have you been practicing?” Beverly shouted over the music.

He guided her easily into a bowtie. “ _Have_ I?"

She never managed to come back with _“here I was thinking you were just jacking off in the A.V. Room!”_ It was the constant movement that was making her heart pound so fast. And she was definitely blushing because of the heat, not his hand sliding down to grip her thigh during a cuddle dip.

“My god!” There was no reason for her to be so bothered about it, but - “Yer _speechless_ , doll, whassa matta’, voice box fall asleep? Wakka wakka -”

“ _Don’t_ ruin it,” she hissed. His mouth snapped shut even though he was clearly trying not to giggle.

They didn’t start regularly hanging out together until she moved back to Derry. Things were immediately different. He actually hugged her - not a group hug or a side hug, but an actual, full-contact embrace with his arms around her neck. She didn’t even like having Richie around at first because of his tendency to get into arguments and spout weird, oversexed jokes. The feeling was definitely mutual. Richie threw her for such a loop that day. She stood there smiling awkwardly and managed to pat him on the back. The others thought it was hilarious. He saved face by cracking a joke, of course. Richie said Stan was getting full of himself being _“the hottest chick in The Losers Club”_ while she was gone. The two started rolling around in the dirt like they often did, but Beverly was still looking around at the boys. Even at 18, she was still trying to figure out what had changed.

The music changed.

“Well, shit.” Richie muttered, panting softly.

Beverly was struggling to ignore the sound of his voice. It was familiar - she couldn't fucking believe it was familiar. “Wha - huh?”

"Slowin' it down for the couples - are we a couple?"

"Stop it."

He had a very serious look in his dark eyes. “But this is a slow song. You know what that means?”

“I seriously don’t.”

She jumped as his hands smoothed down her sides, all the way to her hips. She squeaked when he pulled her flush against him. “If we aren't crotch-to-crotch and awkwardly making out, they're gonna kick us out of prom.”

There was a quick, _violent_ feeling in her chest, but she quipped back at him in monotone. “Phew, Richie. You saved our asses both.”

The devious smile on his lips before he jerked her forward and crashed their mouths together was the beginning of the end. Prom had reached _that_ point. She'd danced with too many of her attractive friends, she'd consistently messed around with this one, and it was a disaster. The stares and muffled hoots never landed. Beverly wasn't even available anymore. She was 17, sitting on her bedroom floor. Richie was wearing her too-big headphones while she indoctrinated him into _"real metal - not that Nikki Sixx garbage"_. His hand was on her cheek, her headphones clattered to the floor, and his mouth tasted like a fucking orange Lifesaver.

 

_Nothing really happened between them until sophomore year when Richie took over the A.V. Room. Beverly was in and out with cables and microphones, sometimes he helped her fix things - it was casual. Then they started flirting. He’d say something stupid so she’d hit him on the arm and leave her hand there, especially when he was wearing short sleeves. They moved on to some bullshit game of holding hands while he distracted her from signing things out. Richie started playing with her hair and she played with his. He was taller, and she had to look up at him while they talked and it totally got her going for some reason. One day, he picked her up. His hand was on her butt for a second, then he sat her on a table. It was supposed to be a joke, but they were too close together and even more impulsive._

_He started hanging out in her room after that, usually by way of her ground floor window. Things cooled back down to watching B-movies on her bed every Friday night. In the warmer months, they'd walk to the Kissing Bridge in the dark, doing Beavis and Butt-head voices and talking about which famous people they’d bone. Beverly had never experienced such a close friendship before. There had never been a second toothbrush sitting above her sink. But it felt natural, like they'd been that way, whatever it was, forever._

 

 _Beverly met someone at the beginning of senior year. He was attractive, played tennis, had a nice car - he was a boyfriend. She wanted to grow out of her attachments to the others. She wanted everyone to be free and happy even though the thought of giving them up hurt like hell._ Having someone else could make it a little easier to deal with _, she thought. He was a boyfriend, but he wasn’t the person she thought he was. He isolated her. He threatened her. And she was too scared to tell anyone - not even Beth._

 _It started with him forbidding her to "associate" with other boys. She had to pretend she didn’t see Mike and Ben on the field or Stan and Eddie in the hallways. She wasn't allowed near Richie. Ever. That alone was painful enough, but it got worse. He pulled her hair too hard when they made out, even when she told him it hurt. He pressured her for sex even though she wasn’t ready. And he, an_ outsider _, didn’t trust her going anywhere by herself._

Motherless daughters forget how to be women. They need reminding or they'll become whores. Whores run with packs of boys. You're not a whore, are you?

_Beverly spent most nights after he dropped her off locked in her bathroom, hugging the toilet and puking her guts out._

_He stopped coming around one day in December. She saw him once or twice after that, but he never looked at her._

_There was a tapping on her window late one night and it nearly sent her into a panic attack. It was snowing. Beverly, clutching her dinosaur of a rotary phone, ready to call the cops (or at least knock someone unconscious), hazarded a peek through her curtains. It was fucking Richie Tozier, covered in snow. She cracked the window open and he was leaning on the sill, smiling pleasantly with his scruffy chin propped up on his hands. She thought about his ridiculous 13 year old self calling her a "dick" because he didn’t want to say “bitch” or “cunt”. His snow boots had mud on them and he left the window open but she didn’t care because she immediately broke down crying into the front of his jacket._

_Things went back to normal. They agreed to call it “normal”._

_They tried to study for midterms together less than a week later and Richie only remembered the stages of mitosis because Beverly read them aloud while she jerked him off. He fingered her and only made it through half of the divisibility rules before she was gasping and begging too loud for him to concentrate. They went to a Grindhouse theater out of town in February and he put his hand up her shirt while Sonny Chiba chucked a guy out of a window. He also may have started grinding against her thigh when they made out at the park one night in March. Beth saw him kiss her in April and immediately averted her eyes, screaming something along the lines of_ “Oh my god, you kiss like adults!” _Richie dissolved into teary-eyed laughter but Beverly was still trying to fit it into the puzzle of whatever they had together. Neither of them could really describe the nature of their relationship. They were bonded to five other people and one could feel like six to them. They were all just barely beginning to understand how they were meant to connect, but Beverly always felt like she and Richie had gone off the deep end. Their situation was different so the thing they had was fixed to be different, too._

 

“ _Jeez oh man_! How much lip gloss did you have on?”

“Enough.” Beverly snickered. “Now you have to wear it.”

“Will this kill me if I ingest it?” He poked his tongue out, licking his lips curiously a few times. He reminded her of a dog trying to slurp peanut butter off its nose. “How’d they get it to taste like cupcakes?” Richie licked most of it off and continued to think very seriously about lip gloss flavors.

“Hey. Don’t waste good lip gloss.”

“Oh no, I’m gonna nail Stan right on the mouth. _Whap_.”

“You’re gonna be a dead Trashmouth.” She warned, even though, honestly she _secretly_ hoped he’d do it.

“I mean, wouldn’t you, though?” Richie waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Beverly screwed her face up. “Seriously, would you kiss Stan?”

“Shut your mouth.”

His fingers dug into her hips, mouth dropping open in artful shock. “Ooooh, you wanna _make out_ with him? Go the _whole_ nine yards?” His voice dropped into a devilish little whisper. “Pull on his perfect hair and just, like, _slide into home base_?”

“What does that even mean?” Beverly was blushing pure scarlet. “Go take a cold shower, you fuckin’ horn dog.” Her fist knocked him hard in the shoulder and he kissed her again. “ _Not now, Richie, I fucking swear -_ ”

He dipped her before she could bop him again. “Later?”

“If one of us doesn’t kill you first.”

“See, I’d behave if I got the good incentives, but it’s always violence with you people.” He had an infuriatingly smug look on his face when he pulled them back upright, just as the song faded out.

She pinched his cheek. “It’s just that punchable face of yours - we can’t resist a little bit of violence.”

“Selective hearing - glad you can’t resist my face, thank you.”

Beverly blew a raspberry at him.

 

 

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that the film Stan is talking about is Party Girl because it fucking came out when this damn story is happening. Also Parker Posey is cute. 
> 
> Here's an hc for ya: They take Mike with them and he goes, "oh, yeah, no shit you'd get fired for having sex in a library."
> 
> Anyway.


	6. I'll take it all night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t even with Stanley anymore holy shit. (See end notes I guess? He’s Going Places, y’all.)  
> Eddie needs to smoke a j  
> JOCK FIGHT.  
> *KICKS OVER A TRASHCAN and looks at u* ben/richie
> 
> This is the conflict chapter.  
> Some blood and violence.  
> Also some gay slurs so be warned.

 

 

**1**

 

It wasn’t difficult for someone as tall and lithe as Stan Uris to navigate a packed dance floor. He had to dodge elbows and legs (as well as the occasional ponytail) while he slipped between bodies, but he had no trouble finding a couple of losers in a sea of average high school students. They were each connected by some invisible string. Stan always felt it, even when they weren’t all stuffed into a crowded gymnasium with hundreds of other people.

_I’m going to completely lose my mind before we even_ leave _._

Stan hung back for a bit, noticing the wide berth the other couples gave Beverly and Richie. Her arms were linked behind his neck. His hands were on her dress - her hips, probably. They weren't aware of their surroundings, that was obvious. Richie and Beverly were “partners in crime”, so to speak. He played off of her, she always had a comeback, they got into trouble sometimes - that was all well-understood. That was what everyone saw. But Stan caught a glimpse of something else - their private selves, maybe - and he wondered if anyone else knew. They _never_ acted that way, not even in front of the others.

He watched them for a moment, as fascinated as any of the other people giving them side-looks. Richie took her face in his hands and Stan almost looked away out of guilt. Something about it made his entire body tighten up. He watched him kiss Beverly so sincerely that he wasn't sure he was looking at the same person anymore. It was like watching a chick flick in real time. _What the hell._ _Where did the last five years go?_

Richie strolled past, bowing him along with a flourish. _“Stanley.”_

He shot him a flip little smirk. _“Richard.”_ Richie winked. There was still some kind of hazy look on his face that Stan couldn’t entirely figure out. It made him a little nervous. He hoped it wasn't because Richie caught him looking. “You behave.”

Beverly held her hands out to him and affected a genteel sort of voice. “ _Stanley._ ”

Everyone had their own effect on him, at least one thing that gave him weak knees and an even weaker disposition. In Beverly’s case, it was her voice. He loved her laugh, even the way she swore. He loved it when she said his name, and when she stood on the very tips of her toes to whisper in his ear. He heard her sing exactly once, by accident. He walked home that day wondering why he suddenly liked The Smiths.

 

_And if a ten-tonne truck kills the both of us_

_To die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine_

 

Her hands were now in his, much smaller than he remembered. They used to be the same height and it was hard to believe how much they’d all changed. Stan felt disconnected; he missed them, that was all. But he wasn't about to deny that his feelings for the others had become more complex over the years. _"Absence makes the heart grow fonder”_ and stuff. _Fonder in the sense that I always thought about them while I was with someone else._ It was almost impossible not to.

Stan had Beverly to himself every leap year when Mars was in retrograde and the humidity was at 25% exactly. It felt like it anyway, like some social eclipse and he couldn't look directly at her or he'd go blind. They had never been close, but Stan got a little less awkward as they grew up. He was bolder, and went out of his way to show her affection. It wasn't PDA, of course - just stuff he could get away with in the hallway. Their meetings were that rare.

When Beverly came back they thought things would be different. They agreed to spend more time together as a group, doubly so when Mike joined them as sophomores. _“Maybe high school won’t suck if we’re together!”_ But it never panned out the way they’d hoped - especially not the way _he’d_ hoped. Aside from the odd intoxicated nighttime visit from Richie and study sessions with Ben, Stan didn't see much of anybody outside of school. Derry wasn’t huge; everyone lived in the same 10 mile radius, so it shouldn’t have been so difficult. And there were plenty of places to meet, places they'd frequented as kids, sitting empty, waiting for a group of loiterers. But school (and work for some) took priority. He still wasn't sure who or what to blame - if he _could_ blame anything.

“We kinda match, don't we?”

He needed to quit thinking so hard. “Yeah, we do.” Being tall came with certain advantages, but slow dancing with a short person wasn't one of them. It was already a total snooze-fest. He was stuck in his own head and she wasn't going to get much stimulating conversation from his shirt. _How the fuck did Ben and Mike do it?_

“Uh, here, Ben kinda did things backwards,” Beverly placed her hands on - or _near_ \- his waist. He couldn’t tell if she was touching him at all. “And then you get the top.”

“Bev, you can touch me. I don't mind.” Her eyes got big for a second and he had to bite back a laugh. “Like, you don’t have to do… _hover hands_ or whatever. It’s okay.”

Beverly nodded and, in a brief loss of control, dug her fingers into his sides. He squeaked out a laugh and she jumped back. “Ahh, fuck! Sorry!”

“No, it’s fine!” He thought it was implausible, that he would never witness it, but Beverly seemed nervous. He took a moment to rethink his worries, then gently took her hands. He pressed them against his hips. She didn't freak out this time, nor did he. He smiled and circled his arms around her shoulders. “There. And we don’t even have to leave room for Jesus. You're welcome.”

She cracked up and Stan couldn't help but join her. "Dude, I’m being so lame, I’m sorry. We all look different so we’re kind of acting different - it’s majorly weird.”

He couldn't argue with that, not when he just had a proper look at her. Stan had to accept that he'd be staring down at her breasts as long as she was in that dress. “Ah-huh.” He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his cheeks begin to flush. _Damnit._

“Sorry about my, uh, y'know,” she mumbled.

“No, no, you _seriously_ don’t have to apologize - I mean, it's okay.” _Your eyes are still closed, jackass_. He cracked one eye open and realized she was looking up at him again, biting her lip trying to hold back laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you embarrassed, Stan. It’s cute.” The only thing that kept him in one piece was the barely visible blush across her cheeks.

_Great. Glad we’re in the same boat, here_. Stan swallowed hard and looked down at her hands resting above his belt. _I’m sorry I made fun of you, Ben. I’m so sorry. I understand now._ "Thanks. I, uh..." He cleared his throat and it sounded awful and wet. His weird hormonal tension rushed back and he realized with fresh horror that he felt the same way back when they first met. Stan didn't know how to engage one-on-one with a girl so he didn't - he hovered like a total weirdo. He kept to the rest of the group, trying to get a read on her from a distance because he didn't trust his social skills enough to move beyond _"man, that's some ugly wallpaper"_ and _"wanna go light off some firecrackers?"_ He wasn’t magnetic like Bill, he wasn't a smooth talker like Ben, and he definitely wasn’t _Richie_ , so what the hell was he? _A coward, Stanley. You're a coward_. “Sorry, you were saying that prom is fucking weird?”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “God, right away - you're feeling it, too, huh.”

“I’ve felt a lot of things and I wish I could unfeel them right now,” he mumbled.

“I know what you mean…” He watched her while she spoke, and this time, she stared back. “It’s like...we’ve been building something and it’s almost finished, you know? And you kinda wanna smash it apart again so it isn't over.”

His anger toward Bill started to make sense - dear old Big Bill had already moved on to something else again. If Bill were to suddenly pull back into the high school parking lot and ask him if he was ready to move on, he’d stand there shrugging his shoulders. _“Do you want to move on?” No, I’m not ready. I still need them._ “ _What are you going to do next?_ ” _I don’t know. I don’t. fucking. know._

“Stan.” Beverly was frowning, eyes locked on his - lovely green eyes washed out with pink. He felt like he wasn’t even awake anymore, like his brain went dark because he thought about Bill again. “Wanna go sit down?”

He blinked in surprise, but his tension receded again. “I’m fine. Really.”

“I'm not wild about this song anyway, come on.”

He kept his mouth shut and let her lead him away from the dance floor. They passed through the double doors, into the vacant first floor hallway. The lights were off on their end and the still dark seemed to make their footsteps louder. Embarrassing as it was to admit, Stan still hated the dark. Adults weren't supposed to care about that shit. So he focused on the sound her heels made instead - small yet confident. He was about to ask how far they were going to walk, but she stopped at the West stairwell. Beverly then asked him to sit down. He did, on the fourth step so they were level.

She placed her hand against his cheek. “You've been crying."

He liked that she was touching him again, but shame spread through his gut like fire. Stan always thought he was pretty opaque but he let a big something slip that night. He had also forgotten about Beverly - how intuitive she was, how she could crack each of them open and get in their heads. He spent most of his time with Ben, Eddie, and Richie, after all. None of them were the type to call his bluff or bring up touchy subjects. Her thumb stroked over his cheekbone and he leaned into her touch. If he could just have that, he'd be okay. _Scout's honor_. “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do anything wrong, Stan.”

“It's stupid -”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” she said again.

Being close to her was beginning to suffocate him. After years of hanging back, never having more than a hug or a fast peck on the cheek, he was fit to break. Break down, break open, he didn't know. He only knew this feeling, years and years of it. _I’m such a fucking coward_. “Look,” he whispered, “I'm just...I'm weak on the inside, like, a lot, and I picked a really bad time to show it.”

Beverly cupped his face and looked him dead in the eye with an intensity he’d only seen from his mother. “You're not weak, Stan.” She frowned at his sardonic laugh. He always forgot that she had pale eyes like his - greener, but almost clear in the dark. “You feel things differently from a lot of people. When something happens, it hits you ten times harder.”

It almost sounded like a skill coming out of her mouth rather than a weakness. It _was_ a weakness, and he had struggled with it his entire life. He wasn't like Eddie and Beverly, though. He didn't understand people, and if he felt anything from another person, it was bad. He could sense when a person had died before anyone told him, and sometimes he cried just because someone else was doing it. Sometimes he cried for no reason at all. There was no use in that. Sensitivity was another thing to get bullied for - like being Jewish and quiet and having “soft” features. Stan Uris learned to hide his feelings to survive. He beat those feelings out of himself before some shithead at school could do it for him. He spent every day swallowing every emotion and it weighed him down until he let himself go. It was why he cried and screamed into his pillow every night. It was why sophomore year was hell, and why he was so pissed at himself sitting in front of Beverly - he had lost control.

“I have no excuse for it.”

“You don't need one -”

“Yes, I do.”

“Stan -”

His mouth went off before he could stop himself. “For _fuck's_ sake, Bev, I can’t even function on my own - I-I have fucking _panic attacks_ if I forget to take pills that are supposed to keep me from _killing myself_ ! The way I feel is bad! And there's no fucking reason for the way I am! Do you even get how fucking _humiliating_ that is?!”

Beverly was silent. Her eyes never left his and he wished he could look away. He yelled at Beverly Marsh. He wanted her to be okay because she was his friend and he loved her, but he attacked her, all because she cared about him and god forbid _anyone_ care about Stan Uris.

He was about to get up and leave when she fell forward and embraced him. She was so small to him, but her arms around his neck and her body pressing against his own was heavy, enough that everything raging inside of him stopped. She'd always been there for them yet he had refused to ask her for anything even though he knew she would give it. He'd convinced himself he didn’t need to bother anyone with his weakness. Stan almost gave in and broke down crying against Beverly like he did with Bill but her weight was still there.

He took a deep breath and roughly slung his arms around her waist. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered against his shirt. Stan felt her nudge his shirt collar aside and press a few kisses against his neck.

"That wasn't okay." His voice was shaking.

Beverly didn't reply.

The gentle contact - her soft, pliable lips on his skin, her thighs between his - took him over. He wanted her pure touch so badly it was driving him crazy. Stan tilted his head back a little, light headed and depleted, hoping she wouldn’t stop.

“I don’t get it, you’re right," she said, her voice muffled against his skin. “I wasn’t allowed to cry when I was - before my aunt took me in...so, it was different, but..." She paused to kiss beneath the angle of his jaw and he felt himself getting hard. “I don’t see a helpless person when I look at you and I never have.” Beverly pulled back. Her face was thoughtful, or pained, he couldn’t tell which. “You’re _not_ weak. Not to any of us.”

It shouldn't have sounded like a revelation to him. He knew they never thought about him that way, but he’d already started shutting himself in. He was a joke - a man terrified of abandonment pulling away before they beat him to it. Bill made him nervous that way, he fixated on it sometimes, but the others weren't like him. He could trust them. Beverly didn’t keep secrets - she had no reason to keep secrets. He could trust her, and it wasn't only because she was tough and he wished he could confront himself.

It was also because he fucking wanted her right then. And she wanted him, too.

He took her by the waist and pulled her between his knees. Their lips were inches apart and she was blushing again. Stan felt like he'd catch on fire any moment. “Is it okay if I kiss you, Bev?” She nodded her head, rubbing their noses together a little. Beverly’s eyes were closed and he thought it was funny. But he didn't laugh.

His lips skimmed over hers and her body tensed beneath his hands. Someone like her, so in control of her emotions, was nervous about kissing him. _Completely illogical_. He slid his tongue between her parted lips, kissing her mouth open. Beverly gasped, and he felt it between his legs. Everything about her was soft - she was letting him in, letting him see her at her most vulnerable. No one had ever done that for him.

Women used to scare him when he was young, sometimes so much that he thought he could never grow up and love them. (Men were off the table for a long time for entirely different reasons.) He couldn't remember what prompted that fear, but it made him feel weird and it got much worse when he hit puberty. The outlier was Beverly. He was attracted to her, and he didn't understand how or why until he was sitting in a Derry High stairwell clutching handfuls of her little lacy dress.

He liked how responsive she was, how easy it was to pull her into his lap and graze his tongue against hers, deepen their kisses, suck her bottom lip, and _fuck_ , the way she gasped drove him wild. She kissed from the corner of his mouth up to the hard angle of his jaw. The tip of her tongue followed his scars in little strokes all the way up to his temples. It _really_ shouldn’t have turned him on the way it did. “Bevvie…” She replied with a curious hum. “I, uh,” he moaned when she turned his head and repeated the motion. His voice came in one strained breath. “Can I touch -”

Her fingers closed around his wrists and brought his hands to her breasts. “This?”

Stan mumbled a weak something and gave them a gentle squeeze while she captured his lips again. Beverly went back to tracing his cheekbones and carefully running her fingers through his hair, occasionally whining when he fondled her a certain way. The zipper dangling at the side of her chest taunted him. It took every shred of restraint left in him to not shove her dress down around her waist. He remembered Richie’s stupid prank last summer. He would never fucking unsee Beverly releasing her hold on her breasts to yank Bill’s shirt over her head. It wasn’t the only thing he jacked off to, but it was fucking _up there_.

Before they met, he'd never really seen a girl's body. Beverly was his age and he liked how she looked. It wasn’t scary and uncomfortable, like seeing his mom naked, or the next door neighbor when she forgot to close her blinds. Older women never sat well with him. There was an abstractness to them, a dangerous potential for certain features. Sharp, judging, looks, and long, dark hair, were bad - very bad. Erica had long, dark hair, but she wore it down, and down was better than up. He felt like an idiot for not realizing that it freaked him out even though it was nonsense.

He pulled Beverly further into his lap and he didn’t care if he poked her because he was still hard or anything. His thoughts had wandered to places he liked to avoid. If touching _Beverly_ triggered thoughts like that he was screwed. _Second base is out of the question_ , Stan thought, _I'm not miserable enough already. This sucks. This fucking sucks._

He hugged her tight against him and leaned his head against her chest. He was silent, only listening to her heartbeat, trying to drown out everything but her, and remind himself that she was okay. Beverly wasn't a strange woman or his ex or some inscrutable phobia - she was his friend.

She held him - one arm around his shoulders, the other bent against his chest while she continued stroking his cheek. “We love you, Stan Uris.”

He took a shaky breath. “I know. I love you, too.”

It took a few minutes to get his bearings again. He felt bad about it but Beverly didn’t seem to mind. He let her up, and listened to her saddle pumps tapping up the stairs while he straightened himself. He smoothed everything back into place.

They sat on the window ledge up on the landing. It would have been pitch dark if it weren’t for the blaring parking lot lights outside. Beverly cracked the window open, and asked if he minded. Stan shook his head. He watched her lift her dress, just enough to shimmy a squashed pack of Winstons out of a hidden pocket. She tapped a Zippo lighter out of the pack before deftly knocking a cigarette between her teeth. Beverly caught him staring and jokingly held the crushed pack out in offering. Her jaw dropped when Stan helped himself to a cigarette. She dropped her lighter into his palm, still gaping.

Stan lit the end and took a long pull, flipping her lighter shut. He couldn’t hold back a twitchy smirk at the look on her face. “This does _not_ leave the stairwell.”

“It won’t! I just - when?”

“Bad relationships come with bad habits, right?” He turned to exhale out through the window slot. “Could’ve done worse, probably.”

“Wow.” Beverly rested her chin on her hand, tipping ash down into the bushes outside. “Love’s a bitch, duck.”

Stan laughed dryly. “Wanna know something weird?” Beverly nodded. The orange glow of her cigarette followed. “I don’t feel like I can have relationships like I had with her - y’know. Even before it went south.”

“Having a crap relationship isn't weird.”

He leaned forward, peering through the open window. “Yeah, but it’s like, _people_ , too. Whenever I was with her, or even when other people flirt or whatever, it’s just...” His nose wrinkled in disgust. “It bothers me when I think about us…all of us.”

She turned her head, a wistful smile on her lips. “I can't tell you that’s weird, either.”

“I kissed Bill.”

“I kind of figured since,” she gestured around her mouth and he snorted a little. “You don't seem too happy about it.”

Stan took a final puff and stubbed his cigarette out on the glass. He watched the butt fall down into the bushes outside. “I mean, I didn’t start it. I think he did it to piss me off.”

“Either that or he just couldn’t hold back anymore.” She winked and Stan rolled his eyes. The crushed cigarette pack returned to its rightful place up her dress. “Wanna go dance?”

_God, what a tomboy._ “Let’s.” Their hands twined together. He felt a little tug in his chest.

“I can’t believe you smoked,” Beverly said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“'Have any gum?”

“Spearmint okay?”

“Oooh, look at the boy scout.”

“A real boy scout would have peppermint.”

“A real boy scout wouldn’t smoke Winstons at prom.”

“Of course not, _nobody_ does that.”

 

 

**2**

 

“Sorry, I was just sittin’ down for a break.” Ben smiled up at the sweet-faced underclassman standing at their table. She had an innocent look about her, but he couldn’t help thinking, _yeah right_. He hadn’t actually done anything for well over 20 minutes, so he didn't have much room to judge.

Richie was stiff in his chair like a well-dressed scarecrow, eyeballing him shrewdly. There was an odd vibe around the guys that night, and it definitely wasn’t over girls. It probably wasn’t worth bringing up at that point. They’d be out of there soon, so everyone would probably calm down.

“Oh no! I’m way sorry to bug you, then!” She placed a delicate hand against her chest. Ben snuck a glance at Richie, who sat glowering between the two of them.

“No, no, I’m flattered!” He reassured her. The underclassman let out a touched little noise. She was pretty cute - he had a bit of a soft spot for braids, especially when girls wore them over their shoulder. Ben gestured to the seat next to him. “You’re free to -”

“Alright, this is _very_ pleasant and all, but _I_ think you’ve spent enough time _not dancing_ , young lady.” Richie stood and turned her around like they were dress shopping. He pointed over her shoulder. “Go dance with that guy, he smells great.” She gave him a little frightened look. “Go on.” He shooed her with both hands. The frightened face dropped into a sour little scowl, but she left all the same. Richie stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her go.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Ben scolded him, grinning. “A little hypocritical, even.”

He flopped back onto his chair, crossing his long legs. “Yeah, well, I was about to puke all over myself.”

Ben tutted. “Sounding a little jealou-”

“You shut up, Haystack. Right now.” Ben gave him a smug half-grin.

“Ugh, this is bullshit, can we go yet?” Eddie scuffled up to the table, twisting a shitty school-issue paper towel in his hands. “I hate these people and I feel like I’m gonna get a wedgie any second.” He dropped his ass onto the chair next to Ben like he’d just barely dodged one. The poor guy was at a 9. Without thinking, Ben reached over and started kneading the back of his neck with one hand. It was an old track team thing and he hadn't done it in a while. Eddie's eyelids began to drift shut. He leaned back into the gentle pressure, mumbling his thanks. Ben couldn't think of why they stopped doing it.

“Cut out on Bevvie and you're getting the most atomic of wedgies.” Richie warned.

“I wouldn’t do that.” He tried for a sneer but he was already melting into his seat. “Why the fuck do I go last…” Richie looked a little put out.

Ben smiled and ruffled Eddie's hair before drawing his hand away. “Best for last?”

“Don’t say that,” Eddie muttered. He turned to Ben, pouting. Ben had to look away. _Fuck, he’s cute._ “I’m gonna pass out or something.”

“Why not get a little practice?” Eddie looked at Richie like he was insane. “Ehh?” He gestured cartoonishly between himself and Eddie, then pointed at the dance floor.

“Pass.”

“Aw, what?”

“I hope you’re not fucking serious.” Richie made a face and shrugged. “Yeah, sure, and get my ass kicked to a soundtrack? Fuck off.”

Ben snorted and tried to cover it with a cough. Eddie was in stress mode again, and the conversation was already spiraling toward a fight. Richie and Eddie had been friends for years, but they still couldn't muster the maturity to resolve their own arguments. They always needed a go-between and it got old _real_ quick. Ben had to sling Eddie over his shoulder once. Richie decided to slap Eddie's ass in front of the track team and only got away with it because, once again, Ben got involved. If it had happened anywhere else, Richie would have gotten his ass beaten, no question. _God, and that was last year. They’re never going to fucking stop._

“What crawled up _your_ ass?”

“ _Nothing_! I’m just not here for you to mess with me and piss me off ‘cause you’re bored.” He snapped.

“I’m not, first of all,” Richie placed both hands on his knees, leaning around the circular table. “Second, _Eddie,_ you know the Gay Kid?”

“Duh.”

Richie flung his arm out toward the stage. “The GAY KID IS THE FUCKING DJ.”

_Oh god, here it goes._

“What in the fucking shit does that have to do with anything?! OF COURSE he wouldn’t get his ass kicked, he has like 50 bodyguards, you fuck! GUESS WHAT,” Eddie bristled like a cat and pointed right at his chest. “ _I’m_ not the Gay Kid! _I’m_ the fucking Asthmatic Kid who got canned by the track coach BECAUSE I'm _apparently_ a gay pervert and, BONUS, I don’t get a free pass to be seen goofing off with other guys!”

“Dude, chill! Like, everyone’s always fucking hated us - so what?”

 _“So what?”_ Eddie was livid. “I get fucked with all the time! _You_ don’t get fucked with ‘cause you got to ditch your dumb-fuck glasses! I can't help how I look - I’m... _I'm_ still a fucking loser! _You_ wouldn’t know what that’s like.” He finished haughtily. Ben thought he sounded a little like his mother.

Richie threw his hands up in frustration. “Are you serious? We only have two weeks left and you're still scared of these motherfuckers!?”

“YES! ARE YOU HAPPY? YES! I HATE HAVING MY ASS KICKED!”

“BUT YOU’LL LET _BEN_ FUCKING TOUCH YOU -”

“Don’t you _dare_ bring someone else into this -”

“What, you just hate _me_? That it? You fuckin' hate me? _”_

Eddie shook his head, his lips pressed tight into a straight line. Ben tensed, ready to jump in at any moment, because Eddie had been holding back. If they continued, he would go off for real. Richie didn’t seem to care.

“I’m done.” Eddie stood up so fast that he almost knocked his chair over. “And his name is Austin, _fucknuts_!” He stormed off.

Richie looked between Ben resting his chin on his hand and Eddie bursting through the frontlines, elbowing prom-goers out of his way. “What is his _fucking_ damage?”

They’d been through the same thing before - many, many times before. “I dunno, you could maybe not...make everything into an argument with him. Like, ever.” Richie looked at Ben like he’d just handed him his calculus homework - and spat in in the middle of it.

“Fuck you, Ben.”

Ben didn't look away. Richie did.

A _very_ bothered Stan Uris appeared at the table and broke their brief silence. _That was quick_. His voice was even, but his eyes were terrifying, fixed on Richie’s sullen face. “So Eddie just cut in on me looking extremely pissed off.”

“Why are you looking at _me._ ”

“Because you’ve been pissing him off for fourteen years, prick, and you chose an _outstanding_ fucking time to do it.” He spat. “Now he’s upset and he’s going to vent to Bev and that’s...she's had enough!" Richie rolled his eyes. "You know what? I don’t even _want_ to know what you did, but whatever it is, you’re gonna knock it the fuck off!”

Richie stared up at him. His usually expressive face was blank - he only looked that serious when he was about to throw a punch.

Ben, the designated peacekeeper, got up and stepped between them. “C’mon. Outside.” He yanked on Richie’s jacket sleeve, feeling like a bouncer. He only went to prom for solidarity and he’d already danced with Beverly. If defusing a potential three way brawl was how he would spend the rest of his time, so fucking be it.

Stan breathed a furious little " _good idea_ " behind him.

Richie cooperated, following Ben to the rec field exit without a word.

They pushed through the double doors and the air was immediately, mercifully clear. The music changed, then became muffled as the doors swung shut behind them. It was humid, but the natural dark and the trilling of crickets began to lift the burden of prom - for Ben, anyway.

Ben and Richie each took a seat on the concrete steps leading down to the field. They sat in uncomfortable silence. Richie hadn't calmed down, Ben could tell without looking. His knee was bouncing and he kept cracking his knuckles - _Pap. Pap. Pap._ \- over and over in a steady rhythm. It had been a while since he’d seen him that agitated.

The more he thought about it, Ben realized senior prom had each of them in some kind of micro-reality. The emotions and interactions between everyone felt sped up and more intense than usual. Bill was out of the picture because he’d become a spectator - a spectator who cared a great deal for them, but a spectator nonetheless. Mike and Beverly balanced them; they could turn an argument off like a light switch. But, as always, they weren’t readily available. That left Ben, Stan, Eddie and Richie - the hotheads who saw the most of each other. A major argument would have happened no matter what they did.

“Feels like we’ve been here for five fucking years -” Richie muttered, patting at his pockets. There was still a little faded purple stripe on the horizon, lingering in the treetops. “Left my fuckin’ cigarettes in Eddie’s car," he grumbled. "Perfect."

“Dude, Stan would choke you out if you smoked wearing that suit.” Richie wasn't amused. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

The crickets filled their silence again.

Ben knew Richie wouldn’t stay mad at him, but he was beyond ready to sort shit out. He hated it when his friends were angry with him, especially Richie. There had always been some strange tension between them. I may have been because they were so alike, but Ben suspected it was about who they spent the most time with. Ben was still in love with Beverly and it was a little maddening watching her become so close to Richie. It was a stupid male thing. He wasn't proud of it. But it must have been frustrating for Richie to watch him having such a cozy relationship with Eddie. They grew apart. They still bickered, but there wasn't much opportunity for anything else. It was a sore topic, and neither Ben nor Richie had grown out of their tendency to get a little possessive.

“Sorry,” Richie said.

“You’re alright, Rich. Don’t worry about it.”

His knee stopped. “No, that was a dick move just now. I, uh…” Richie cleared his throat. “I shouldn't have gotten weird with you. I mean, you're good. You're there for Eds.”

“And you look out for Bev. We’re square.” Ben cocked his head, his tired smile in place. He remembered Richie catching him outside of the locker room back in December. They had a little tennis-playing problem to take care of. Rich looked out for Bev, alright. "I kinda wanted to knock your ass out a few times, y'know." Richie leaned away from him, unnerved. "I mean, I didn't! I wouldn't."

"Thank fucking god, I'd rather have Mike throw me off the top of the fuckin' Standpipe." He murmured. "I'm starting to think we might be a little behind when it comes to the people we...y'know."

“I don’t _just_ love Beverly, dude.” They shared a brief glance and Ben felt his face heat up. _Why the fuck did I say that?_ “Plus, Eddie and Stan aren’t gonna stay mad at you forever. It’ll get better once we’re out of here.”

Richie considered it for a moment, rubbing at his jaw with the heel of his palm. “I don’t get it.” He sighed. “Stan and Eddie’s assholes are so twisted - like, they’re so edged up. The second I make a joke they go totally donkeyshit.”

To be fair, Eddie and Stan were way more patient when they weren't going stir crazy at school dances together. The question of _"why do they hate me so much?"_ didn’t come up often, but Ben discussed it enough to know when Richie was fishbowling. _Maybe you could think about why they’re acting the way they’re acting instead of just assuming negative reactions are personal attacks against your sense of humor, Rich_. But that wasn’t something he could teach him how to do. Ben wasn’t about to pull some ridiculous guidance counselor bullshit like holding up pictures of faces and having Richie tell him how the person was feeling. That was stupid. It was stupid that someone as funny and charming as Richie had _any_ trouble reading people. There had always been something else going on with Richie Tozier and Ben was still trying to figure it out.

“What'd I tell you the last time we had this conversation?” Richie looked drained. “I’m serious, I wanna know if you remember.”

There was a long pause - it felt like Jeopardy. _Tactless Disasters for 500, Alex_. “There’s always a reason, I know.”

“Yup.” Ben leaned back on his palms, looking up at the darkening sky. A few stars had come out. “Eddie even told you what was going on with him, didn’t he. Hasn’t always done that.” Ben glanced sidelong at Richie, who was now hunched over, staring down at his hands. It only ever made sense to him in retrospect, it seemed. Ben wondered how clear-headed he was in the middle of mouthing off. “Have you noticed what he’s been doing all night?”

“Hiding.” Ben nodded, waving his hand in circles so he would keep talking. “About to have a panic attack because he doesn’t want people to fuck with him anymore and he’s scared it’s going to happen again.”

Had Richie's head dipped any lower in shame, he would have rolled head over ass down four flights of concrete stairs. Ben sat up and scooted over, pressing himself against Richie’s side. “Hey.” He looked pathetically up at him. Ben stared at the crooked bridge of his nose before meeting his eyes. Richie's immaturity and recklessness were parts of his well-constructed front. They all knew it. But whenever Ben talked to him like this, he felt closer - not just to a more secure and honest Richie, but to an understanding of what brought them together. “Nobody hates you. We’d all be -” _dead without you_ “- bored as hell without you, buttwipe. Who'd make all of us laugh? _Bill?"_

Richie waved him off. “Oh, stop.” Ben ruffled his hair and he smiled. “Look, I don’t say it enough, but -”

“ _Holy shit,_ this is some fuckery.”

"Some _buggery_."

Ben and Richie didn't catch much shit during high school, they lucked out in that sense. If they did get hassled, it felt more like an inconvenience than anything else. Years of bullying could do that to a kid - especially if they also survived some seriously spooky shit. They exchanged annoyed looks and dragged themselves to standing.

Ben was wrong about this situation. _This_ wasn’t an inconvenience, it was a _blessing_. Alex _fucking_ Hearst and two other guys had just delivered themselves to him. Ben had been itching to go off on someone all evening and nothing would satisfy him more than beating the hell out of the guy who started the whole thing. It was tempting, but Ben would have preferred a more casual setting for dealing with Hearst. He wanted to take his time with this guy. He also didn't want to drag Richie into a fight - he actually looked nice for once.

“We got ourselves a couple’a pillow-biters,” Hearst said. His voice was teasing. He probably thought they were juniors.

Richie’s mouth didn’t hesitate. “What do you guys bite, towels?" Ben cracked up.

Someone coughed out, " _Richard!_ " and one of Hearst's buddies sneered, "what are you fags smiling about? Did we interrupt your prom night bee-jay?”

"Nah, you just missed it," Ben said with a lopsided grin. He could have knocked him out where he stood, and would have done so gladly, but there was still a chance he could get them to leave. They weren't worth an actual fight. "There's no need for this, seriously."

"Wait a sec," Hearst said. He gave Ben a once-over. "I know you. Track, right? You're real good friends with that little cocksucker, what's-his-name."

That did it.

"Oh, yeah." While he spoke, Ben half-watched Richie shed his jacket and toss it behind him. "And you're the guy who can't take rejection."

Hearst snorted. "You mean that cum-catcher Marsh? Dude, I just didn't have any ones on me."

Richie threw his hands up. "And there you go." Ben, already mid-lunge, froze. Richie strolled up to Hearst shaking his head. "I hate to do this, man."

Ben had no idea Trashmouth could hit so hard - or fast. Hearst turned at the neck, there was a loud bone on bone smack, and Ben thought it was beautiful. He belted him again, this time under the chin. Richie shook his hand out a little. “ _Jeezum!_ Why is this so easy, towel-biter? Are you asleep, dude?”

He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a small trickle of blood. “Ever stop running your cock-loving mouth, _Dick?”_

“Yeah, when I’m eating your mom out -” Hearst snatched him up by his shirt and drove his fist right into the center of Richie's face. Blood spurted out of his nose, running down to his chin. He went down hard on the concrete next to Ben, howling “WHY THE FUCK IS IT ALWAYS MY NOSE!”

Ben seized the opening and jump-tackled Hearst while he was still feeling around in his mouth. There was no time for him to react. It made a fairly humorous picture - a lean track kid overpowering a football player who just tossed Richie like a wet napkin. If Ben Hanscom got mad enough, seconds felt like minutes and he felt nothing but pure, unfiltered rage. Hearst hit the concrete, pinned and defenseless under all 163 pounds of Ben.

After he lost his dad, Ben's mom took him to a few counseling sessions. He remembered sitting in a hard chair that would have been too big for most kids his age, waiting for hours. Being a child, he was desperate for something to look at so Ben ended up reading about the five stages of grief. GRIEF AND YOU, the pamphlet read. He couldn’t read the whole thing at 7 years old, but he looked at the section titled "Anger" for a while. Ben remembered staring at a picture of a man gritting his teeth and clutching both sides of his head, wondering if that was how he felt. They way he felt about his father was still unclear to him, even at 18, but Ben was certain of one thing. He had been angry since 1989, and he would, without hesitation, beat the living shit out of anything that threatened his friends.

“She rejected you and you’re mad about it, you piece of shit! You know how _hilarious_ that is?” Ben was whaling on his face, deaf to everything but his own steady stream of insults and obscenities. “You thought we were gonna let this shit slide, you fucking baby? You’re _lucky_ I’m the only one fucking you up right now - _so motherfucking lucky!_ Lemme get my little cocksucker friend out here, man, he'd love a couple of your _teeth_ !" Ben kept going, unaware of Richie death-gripping his shirt and trying like hell to pry him off. “I’m not even hitting you as hard as I can! Not bad for a _fag_ , right? How ya like it? I can do this all night, fuckface!”

“BEN!” Richie finally tipped him backwards, clutching fistfuls of his shirt. “Holy motherfucking _SHIT_ , _calm down, you crazy bastard_!”

Everything seemed to slow back down. Ben was seeing normal colors again and it almost surprised him, like he forgot. The guy Richie scrapped with, now sporting an eye injury, helped Alex Hearst to his feet. They moved like a couple in a jacked up three-legged race. He hauled him off, not daring to look back. The third guy stayed behind. He was gaping at Ben, eyes totally agog. There was a noticeable clumsiness in the way he was standing. Ben wasn't sure what this guy was doing with the other two because there wasn't a single jock bone in his body

“Dude! You’re the psycho from the track team!” Ben stared back at him, still hiccuping giggles, and the guy cracked up. His eyes were bright pink. It was no wonder he never jumped in. “Fuckin’ _kick ass_ , man!” He turned to follow the other two, laughing and pointing at Ben. "That kicked _ass_!"

Both Ben and Richie were considering the possibility that the last three minutes had been a hallucination. High school fights weren't usually that dramatic (even for someone like Ben who tended to go overboard) but their injuries were real. Painfully real. They sat catching their breath for a while, long after the last guy rounded the corner.

Richie hadn’t let go of his shirt. "Think he's selling?"

“Richie,” he panted, slumping back against him.

“Yes?”

“Did you just do a Hunter S. Thompson voice?”

“...It might have slipped.”

“I love you, man.”

He set his jaw. “ _Don’t get weird on me, man!_ ”

Ben was delirious. “ _Turn off that fuckin’ music! My heart feels like an alligator!_ ”

“ _You scurvy shyster bastard! Watch your language!_ ”

“Oh my god…” His uncontrollable giggling resumed when he noticed the blood on his white shirt, Richie’s bloody nose, their banged-up knuckles - “ _God!_ How’s the nose?”

He prodded the swelling while Ben hupped himself up to face him. “I...it might not be broken.”

Ben took Richie by the chin and tilted his face to catch the outdoor lights, sighing out the rest of his laughs. He had a pretty impressive scrape right at the point of his chin from biting the concrete. “It doesn’t look crooked or anything - swelling up, some blood…Dude, you didn’t get a drop on yourself.”

Richie looked a little ill. “Most of it went in my mouth and all over whoever the fuck that other dude was.” Ben snorted.

It took some effort, but he stumbled to his feet and gave Richie a hand up after him. Ben unbuttoned his shirt and surrendered it to the nosebleed. It was already covered in blood, anyway.

“I was going to say,” Richie spoke through the shirting fabric, sounding very congested. They were standing in low-light, but Ben saw that awkward half-smile he wore whenever he wasn’t joking. “You’re a really good dude and I’m sorry for fucking with you so much. You’ve done a lot for me -” he paused to dab a trickle of blood from his lip. “I’m -”

Richie's voice sounded ridiculous but Ben felt a touch embarrassed by his confession. “Come on, it’s fine -”

The bloodied wad of shirt shifted away from Richie's face then. Ben went rigid, wondering why Richie's sweaty hand was on the back of his neck. Richie leaned his forehead against Ben's. The smell of his coppery blood, the closeness, provoked a feeling he didn’t usually associate with Richie Tozier. His heart was going crazy. He watched a fresh dark line seep out of one nostril. “I’m serious.” Would he even care about the blood if they kissed? _I’m not that crazy yet, am I?_ “I love you, Haystack.”

 _Words. How do I say words._ He sputtered a little, guiding the shirt back to Richie’s nose and righting himself. “Are you dying or something?”

“Dying for a big, nasty smooch, baby!" Ben frowned and Richie cackled. "What, you don't want my nose blood all in your mouth?”

Ben hesitated. “Ask me again after a few shots.”

Richie grinned awkwardly, trying not to agitate his injuries. “I’m holding you to it, Benjamin.”

“Well, I mean, let’s cut the crap,” Ben said, straight-faced. “Top or bottom?”

Richie burst into laughter and Ben broke down immediately. They returned to the gym in good spirits - Ben with his arm slung around Richie's shoulders, Richie hysterical and wincing into Ben's shirt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS BELOW. SORRY!  
> IT’S NOT THAT DEEP, but I do want to explain why I’m going this route with this Stanley since it’s almost becoming a trope in fic:  
> Trauma (especially hidden trauma) is such a huge theme in IT and I’m just not the type of person who can nope by the unpleasant stuff. I’m not strong enough! It’s a fucking AU but when we’re dealing with The Losers Club as a group dynamic it’s important to remember how trauma and violence connects them. I personally cannot find another way to convey this in fic, like, nothing else does it for me (someone pls prove me wrong). But anyway - the REASON I’m kind of going ahead with this as a character point is a) in the context of this AU, it makes sense for him to start getting some shades of the hidden trauma back with the separation going on, and b) FLUTE BITCH SCARED THE PISS OUT OF ME (I still cover my eyes, don't judge me) and y’all know the second he remembers, she's coming back to ruin his ass.  
> Stan committing suicide totally blows and I get why a lot of ppl are fuckin’ staunch about Stan NOT DOING THAT (and Eddie dying but listen here right quick, his death in the novel is one of the most badass character deaths I’ve read and I really hope they do something comparable in 2019. Eddie’s the only one who could pull that shit off lbr he’s one of the strongest characters.) So anyway - I get it, but I can practically see Muschietti rubbing his paws together over it bc it could easily be an iconic horror scene if it goes well. I’m 99% certain it’s gonna be flute bitch up in his house and I’ll cover my eyes the entire time.  
> I wanted ‘89 to be the source of Stan’s trauma and related symptoms. It’s what makes him an interesting (and sad) character - a kid with a very loving set of parents, supportive people around him, outwardly calm and cool-headed. He is a kind and caring lad, and he can even mostly cope with the bigotry being thrown his way, BUT THEN this fucking cosmic trickster demon completely breaks him. Stan thinks/experiences things differently from the others so IT fucking comes for him and the same is true in the film. His interactions with Pennywise are easily the most stressful IMO.  
> I wanted to make it clear that I’m not just latching onto Stan being a tragic headcase - I actually get pretty annoyed by that tendency in fic since it isn’t always handled very realistically or becomes lost in a jumble of character traits.  
> Sorry. Ramblin’.


	7. Who you think you might be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie loses his shit.  
> Everyone love each other and abt to cri  
> THEY FINALLY LEAVE.  
> HURRAH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if it doesn't go away?  
> What if this feeling always plays?  
> I'm reckless at night, I'm sorry for days  
> I'm looking for you, through lavender haze
> 
> \- "Are You Okay?", Dum Dum Girls

 

**1**

_Richie’s such a fucking asshole, I swear to fucking god I'm gonna kill him._

Eddie Kaspbrak didn't get properly angry very often. Most people would challenge him on that, but most people had never _seen_ him properly angry - he made sure of it. It was too late for that. He clamped one hand down on Stan's shoulder and roughly shoved him aside. Stan looked ready to throttle him and Eddie was expecting to feel shame, but aggression took him over. He was about to take a swing at someone who once wrestled Richie into submission wearing a _leg cast_ when something weird happened. A current shot between them, and they were briefly linked, like a mental handshake. The second Eddie felt that connection, he understood - _they_ understood. It felt like they were reading each other's minds in that moment.

Eddie hadn't felt anything like it in years. It shocked him out of his little rampage and he was left staring listessly up at Stan.

Stan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before taking his leave.

He realized with some horror that he was standing in a sea of his asshole classmates and Beverly was calmly watching him and she was absurdly pretty in that fucking dress that he'd avoided looking at all evening and _oh god_ she'd just seen him take some seriously misdirected aggression out on Stan like a complete asshole. _At least it’s a slow song_ , Eddie thought to himself.

Beverly didn't speak of the shit he just pulled, she just patted his cheek. Eddie was still incoherent, heaped in front of her like a sleeping cow begging to be tipped. “You’re just in time for the dramatic slow dance," she said.

“I-is this the one with the Irish lady?” Beverly covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. “Nothing gets me in the mood like...lyrics I can't understand.” She fondly smacked his shoulder and Eddie fought back a smile. It almost made him forget that he was furious seconds before. _Almost_.

She sighed and rested her arms atop his shoulders, linking her hands behind his neck. It might have bothered him years ago, but Eddie had come to like being close to her. Sure, he was a teenage boy and felt awkward about it sometimes, but this was Beverly. He wasn't sure how, but she knew what to say to them, or what to do, whenever there was a problem. She had a strange influence over the six of them. Strange, but not bad. Stan and Richie got into it in front of her once and she got so fucking mad that they stopped dead. Eddie couldn't remember what she said to them, but it wasn't much. They had their hands behind their backs like a couple of 4 year olds. _That's a fair description of those two when they argue, actually._

“What happened?”

Beverly's voice sounded miles away. He couldn’t hear her over the loud motherfuckers behind them - and touching her waist had his brain ready to implode. “Huh?”

“You looked majorly pissed just now.”

“Oh. Yeah. Uhh,” he mumbled. Sometimes he’d get so mad that he’d see red and _boy_ was it embarrassing - especially in front of her. “Richie was just being a fucking dick.”

“Shocker.” She rolled her eyes. Eddie was grateful she didn't ask him to explain - it seemed like she already knew. “Shame it isn’t the 1930’s anymore. We’d be calling him Dick all the time.”

Eddie laughed, relaxing a little. “Maybe now’s the time to bring it back.”

He loved it when she smiled, especially because he didn’t have to fucking bend over to see it like the others. Being short wasn’t so bad sometimes. “He wants your attention, y’know.” Eddie recoiled, screwing his face up. “Richie cares about you a lot, he’s just kind of… _very_ bad at showing it.”

Eddie looked down at his shirt sleeve, worrying his lip between his teeth. At present, he didn’t believe her in the slightest. He was all screwed up from the ups and downs of high school and Richie just didn’t get it. How is that caring about someone? People called Eddie "fag" and "girly boy" and shit for years - he didn’t even have pit hair until he was 16 - but Richie got away with screwing around like he was Bugs _fucking_ Bunny. Just because he _felt_ like it. He got away with it and he just assumed Eddie could do the same. That was what pissed him off so hard. Richie got beaten up because he wore big, stupid glasses and looked goofy as a kid, but the second he started wearing contacts and got kind of hot in a weird way, he dropped off the radar. Eddie, however, couldn’t change how tall he was, or how young he looked, or all of his weird little tendencies like wiping off his desk with wet-naps every day.

“Why the fuck is it me?”

Beverly rolled her eyes a little. “Hell if I know. Ask him.”

The thought of confronting another guy about affectionate teasing gone off the deep end was horrifying. Part of him still felt like a child, letting it light him up and make him defensive. Richie didn't _flirt_ with him like he did with the other guys, though. He picked on him, just like the jock boys who bugged the cute nerdy girls because they obviously liked them. It was stupid. _Richie_ was stupid. But Beverly was right.

“Eddie.” He looked up into her shadowed eyes. She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, so close that he felt it all the way down to his thighs. “Don't worry.”

He could only reply with a gentle whimper. Why did they both pull him in so much? Eddie took a deep, wavering breath. She hummed in amusement, moving him with her. He decided to focus on the nonsensical order of steps she was leading him through. “Sorry I like, threw Stan. I feel bad now.” His voice dropped to a low mutter. “You looked really good together.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Owesies.” Eddie pouted. "For Stan, not me."

“Wha - you can’t call owesies for someone else!”

“Oh, yes I can. You know exactly what Stan's doing right now, Eds.”

He huffed. Hopefully that meant letting Stan borrow his SNES and calling it fair. He couldn't remember if Stan played video games at all. Eddie's shoulders slumped. "Fine."

"I almost crushed all of your hand bones earlier so I'd say we're square."

He sighed. "It's seriously okay. I survived Richie trying to play field medi-" _Did Richie try to snap my arm back into place?_ _When the hell -_ "I've had worse." Beverly cast her eyes down and nodded. There was a bashful smile on her lips. Something about that look made his mouth go dry.

The dance floor had gone quiet and Eddie, still struggling to look at Beverly after her lips touched his cheek, risked a quick look around. “Oh god -” his eyes snapped up to hers. Getting a perfectly chaste peck on the cheek was far less embarrassing than what he was witnessing.

“What?”

Eddie lowered his voice. “We're surrounded by _makeouts_.”

She peeked over his shoulder. Eddie didn't like the gawky look on her face. “Oh, man...not sure they're just making out, Eds.”

“Ew! Did all of the chaperones leave or something?”

“Wouldn't surprise me.” Beverly grinned. “Bet _they're_ all making out, too.”

A horrible image of his uptight history teacher making out with that one weirdo from the math department invaded his thoughts. “Oh, _barf_.”

“Right? Totally gross.”

Eddie caught a whiff of her flowery perfume he’d always liked. He realized why her voice sounded so funny next to his ear. He was clinging to her, nuzzled against her shoulder. It was one of those weird backwards things he did - so frightened and confused by intimacy that he went ahead and shoved himself _intimately_ against a woman. He righted himself, loosening his arms from around her waist. _Oh god, how tight was I hugging her?_ _Oh god._ He could still feel where her chest had pressed against his.

“I’m glad I got to dance with you, Eds,” she said.

There were a bunch of soft and jerky feelings going on in his body all at once. He didn’t entirely hate it. It had been one of the weirdest nights of his life and most of it was fraught with secondhand embarrassment, but Eddie was honestly glad he went to his stupid fucking senior prom. He wouldn't have done it in any other situation or for anyone else. “I love you, Bevvie,” he blurted. _OH NO._

She touched her forehead to his and Eddie's rabbit-quick heart almost gave out. It made him feel tingly, and he was about to overflow with beautiful, terrifying feelings but he didn’t want it to stop. Six people loved him. He felt it whenever they played baseball, or got wasted, or sat around in complete silence. Love confused him, and sex freaked him out, but _they_ didn't. Eddie would never give up what he had because he knew his feelings for his friends weren't one-sided.

 _This damn song needs to end right now_.

It did. A faster paced song picked up and he wanted to scream. _Austin, why?_

“Oh god, this song is ridiculous.”

“What?”

Beverly started singing along - matching the guy's Definitely Not David Bowie voice. She poked at his sides and he squeaked. “ _Now you got me crawlin’, crawlin’ on the flooooor...and I’ve never met a girl like you before - dah dah dahdadadada!_ ” Her exaggerated lip-syncing cracked him up even though part of him was mortified. It was weird because she listened to the hardcore stuff. She played it too loud in his car and some of the lyrics made him want to bend the steering wheel in half. She was never silly in front of anyone but them. But Beverly didn't have to be tough for other people. She could be hilarious. She could make Eddie laugh so hard that Slurpee shot out of his nose. Watching her affecting such flamboyance, knowing she was doing it for him, made him laugh even harder.

“ _Stop_ , oh my god.” He took a breath between giggles. “I can’t-”

His laughter only encouraged her. Watching Beverly goofing off like they weren't in a social pit of vipers made something clear to him: he didn't owe anyone shit. He didn't articulate it very well, but Richie was right. Eddie didn't have to give anyone the satisfaction of fear or being someone he wasn't. He didn't even have to know who he was! He was still growing up, and maybe it was taking him longer than others, but that was okay. People had been telling him who he was his entire life. He was "in the closet", he was weak, he was sick, he was every name available in the teenage insult lexicon - he was everything but Eddie. Even though the person who would be Eddie spent most of prom in hell, he realized there was one label he didn't mind.

He was a loser, and he was proud of it.

 

 

 

 

**2**

Richie and Ben looked like a couple of kids in time-out. Stan was still waiting at the table and they almost turned back because they knew he was about to lay into them. He looked them over and, rather than going off, he took the _"I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed"_ route. It was somehow worse than one of his proper guilt trips. They hung their heads in shame even though they still felt totally righteous for thrashing a couple of asshole jocks. When they told Stan _who_ they threw down with, he paused, and then (sternly) congratulated them. Ben and Richie knew damn well that Stan would have loved to take a few shots at Hearst. He left to scrounge up some ice packs, their long-suffering Savior yet again.

It was frustrating being unable to control himself. Richie suspected it was a mixture of hormones, excitement at spending time with everyone, and anger. It felt like they were being taken away from him. They were already starting to go. After what happened outside, he realized he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Ben in a few short weeks. He needed him. It was stupid, childish of him to feel that way, but he couldn't help it. Richie meant what he said to Ben. Even though being honest about his feelings could feel like taking shot after shot of cough syrup, he meant it.

Ben stretched in his chair across from him, looking ready to fall asleep any moment. He realized he felt a deep something for Ben, something that he couldn't (or wouldn't) define. He and Stan always bailed his ass out when he really needed it. Richie depended on them and life without Ben, or Stan, or any of them, didn't make sense, he couldn't even picture it. Maybe he had become _too_ dependent on them. Richie didn’t know why they were all so attached. He didn’t know why he felt it so much every fucking waking moment of his life. He didn't know why someone like him, someone who didn't belong with anyone because god help them, felt this way about his six friends.

“What did you guys get into?”

Beverly didn’t sound angry. _Thank god_. He watched her affectionate smile while she checked his face. Her hand was on his cheek. It made all of the roiling emotions surge right back up - right when he was finally calm. He had to stop himself from thinking about life without her as well. “How did you manage another nosebleed, Richie?”

“The way I always do.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Fartknocker.” He felt something then - relief, gratitude, something else.

“My kit’s in the car. I’ll get you outside,” Eddie murmured. Richie was surprised he was even speaking to him again. The color in his cheeks stood out against his pale skin while he stood awkwardly behind Beverly. Eddie seemed unable to maintain eye contact with him. _He_ wasn’t wearing any lip gloss, Richie noticed.

Richie glanced over at Ben, meek and blushing a little, holding his hand out for Beverly to look over. She stroked his hair, regarding him with the same loving smile on her lips. Ben got them through the physical, dragging them apart or stepping between them before things went south. Beverly tended to their emotions - a touch and a soothing whisper, or sometimes a nice, sharp yell, to get them thinking straight again. Richie managed an honest smile, beginning to feel like himself again.

“Thanks, Eddie," he said. Eddie looked a little unsure of himself, but he returned it. It felt like something had lifted off of them.

“I - I’ll wrap your hand, too, Ben.”

“Cool,” He looked down at his knuckles, smiling a little. “‘Preciate it.”

“So, what is _up_ out there?” Richie scooted the chair next to him out for Beverly. He accepted that he would just like a goose for the rest of the night. “Are people gettin’ fresh?”

She side-eyed the wild mess of seniors (and their younger dates). “Someone prob’ly dropped E in the punch...it was getting _real_ weird.” Eddie looked sort of traumatized, rubbing at his forehead.

Richie, unable to resist, cupped his hands around his mouth. “LEAVE ROOM FOR JESUS, SINNERS!” Someone shouted “ _Fuck you, Richard!”_ back at him and he clapped a hand over his mouth, giggling like an imp.

Stan, boy scout that he was, returned to the table with ice and handed Beverly a cup of water. She took it gratefully and downed it at once. It reminded Richie of when she taught him how to shotgun a beer on his fifteenth birthday. They got up to some illegal mischief over the years and he was glad for it. The corners of his mouth twitched - what he wouldn’t give to see Beverly playing flip cup in that cute little dress. _Or without it_.

He glanced down at her thighs the second she crossed her legs and Stan whapped an ice pack right onto his nose.

 

 

****

**3**

“You guys wanna dip?”

“ _God,_ yes.” Eddie groaned.

“I’ll go get Mike. He's gotta be totally wiped by now.” Ben got to his feet.

Beverly raised an eyebrow. “Wait a sec, where'd Bill go?”

Ben glanced at Eddie, Eddie glanced at Stan, Stan glanced at where Richie should have been. He had scampered off to the punch table. “He’s, er, waiting.” Ben said, already backing away while Stan stormed off, hissing, _I’m gonna kill him_. “Meet outside?”

“Yep.” Eddie hopped up and offered his arm to Beverly. “Please get me out of here.”

As Ben left the table, there was a distant shout of _“Tozier, you put that fucking cup down right now! STOP DRINKING IT!”_ followed by a pained squawk. _“YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF!”_

There was something very special about Stan holding Richie in a headlock with Boyz II Men tenderly crooning in the background.

 

Mike looked a kid crashed out after the mother of all sugar highs. He was splayed out in a chair next to the DJ booth - behind the thudding speakers, of course. It looked like the teachers and administrators he was helping had stepped out. Who knew how long he had been collecting ballots and trying to calm the frantic prom committee. Based on what he'd witnessed that night, the Derry High Senior Prom was barely controlled chaos, running on happy accidents and tension headaches.

Mike was easily the most put together of the guys that night. Beverly was the prettiest, of course - no contest - but Mike looked exceptionally sharp. Ben still wasn't over it. _And Stanley -_ _holy shit_. They were both so tall, yet so agile - graceful, even. Ben, meanwhile, was still getting used to his major body changes since freshman year. Running helped, but that was a predictable and repetitive movement. Off the track, Ben was tripping over trash cans and struggling to navigate the crowded hallways between classes. He dressed with equal uncertainty. It was always plain things or his track uniform - he had a few oddities in his closet, though. He chuckled to himself remembering the legendary leather vest. Eddie was always a bit cagey about going out with the other guys because of his height, but he accompanied Ben to the thrift store one day. He found Ben in a random aisle, breathless and completely red in the face. At first, Ben thought he was having an asthma attack, but then he noticed a black leather vest dangling from the hanger in his hand. Eddie wheezed and cackled, going on about how _“70’s leather daddy”_ it looked. He jokingly demanded that Ben try it on. He did. Eddie stopped laughing and wouldn't let him leave without buying it. Ben never wore it, but he’d never throw it away - the look on Eddie’s face had been too perfect.

“Ben?” Mike was squinting up at him. “Am I dead?”

“I think we all died a little bit tonight.”

“Oh, thank god,” He muttered, stretching in his chair. “We’re out?”

“We're out,” Ben gave him a hand up.

The early onset nostalgia began to kick in the second they left the building. It was still so wild to him that they were all together that night. He almost couldn’t believe he’d spent four years in the same town as them, his entire damn friend group, without seeing half of them - sometimes for months at a time. Ben had to rack his brains to remember the last time he actually had a full conversation with Mike. _March? Maybe when we all got drunk for Richie’s 19th?_ _Was it seriously three months ago?_

He remembered the first few weeks after Mike joined up with them, before Neibolt and the sewers. It took some of the others a while to stop razzing Ben about being fat ( _Richie.)_ But Mike, who was bulkier than the others after years of working a farm, had no problem shining them on. He would just lean on Ben's shoulder and hit back with “ _gee, Ben, I had no idea uncooked spaghetti could talk, did you?_ ” Richie would then burst into his “ _YOWZA,YOWZA! Hanlon got off a real ball-buster!_ ” routine to save face. It had been years since Ben thought about that short period of time when they were all together. He had been hoping for, he dared to think, "the best summer ever" before the clown fucked it up. They were all scared out of their minds but they still did fun stuff together like sneaking into R-rated movies and reading comics down in the Barrens. Ben still had good memories of them, even after the rock war, when they were neck deep in their nightmare.

Mike always stuck with Ben when he wanted to dip into the library for something. IT was gone. Ben knew that. But there was still a lingering anxiety keeping him from going in by himself. It could have been something like PTSD, Ben thought, even though it seemed silly to his logical mind. He was grateful to Mike for following him through the stacks until he had what he was looking for. He was the only one of his friends who actively used the library, and practically a card catalogue himself. Ben smiled, remembering how Mike always sent Ben home with a few extra books - _essential reading, Ben, right up your alley_. His enthusiasm was contagious. Ben could see him feeling very at-home as a librarian.

The summers after Bowers were almost rose-colored in his memories. It was the new kid and the outsider going through history books and maps outside the library, chilling in the grass with nothing to run from. They hadn’t done anything like that since Mike’s grandpa died. Ben’s eyes started watering. His emotions were finally catching up with him, overtaking his tired, tired heart.

“God, I’m so glad to be out of there,” he said. “I forgot what air is really like.”

Mike grinned a little. “It's a good night for the quarry.”

Stargazing at the quarry like they did as kids was heartbreakingly pure to Ben, _ideal_. He knew they’d never be able to do it again after that night. He sniffed, cussing under his breath. He only had a bit longer with them. They had already begun to grow apart as they grew up, but Ben still felt he'd lose everything the second he left Derry. It sounded so dumb in his head, but they were everything to him. He felt the fabric of Mike’s suit brush against his back before he pulled him into a tight embrace, muffling his sobs.

 

“Hey there, slowpokes.” Richie was lying posed on the hood of Eddie's car like some kind of lounge singer with an ice pack draped over his face.  “It's so cruel to make a girl wait. I'm positively _achin_ -”

“Get offa my car or you're riding in the trunk.”

“Y’know, you guys are really selling me on the trunk tonight.” His voice was still more of a quack than anything else.

“Sure,” Stan said, resting his chin on top of Beverly’s head. “It’s _real_ fun. Eddie’ll hit every pothole in Derry.” Her hair was down and Ben had to focus on something other than her tousled bangs - and Stan's lean arms wrapped around her waist.

“He’s right. Just for you.” A fiendish little grin was on Eddie’s face and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Richie actually looked a little spooked.

“Hold up.” Mike gestured to the mess that was Richie Tozier. “What the fuck happened?”

Richie flapped his hand at Ben. “Why don’t you tell him? Mike, look at him!”

He rolled his eyes and held his hands up for inspection. Mike’s eyes got wide. “Whoa, who did you _ice_ , dude?”

“Your good friend from the locker room.”

“Oh, shit.” He whispered. “If he rats, they’re gonna suspend you.” Ben shrugged. “Not that it matters in your case, I guess...but... _shit_. Nice going.”

“Hey, I started it!”

“Of course you fucking did.” Beverly shoved Richie lightly. “And look where it got you!”

“Hell yeah, front and center watchin’ ol’ Haystack beat the jock out of him.” She smacked his hand. “Ow! I hit him first, you know! I'm still tender!”

Ben snorted. “I still can’t believe he called you _Dick_.”

Eddie scoffed, screwing his face up. “How do you even get Dick from Richard?”

“Just ask me.”

Everyone lost it - save Eddie, of course. “You can fucking walk to the quarry.”

Stan took a quick head count, still giggling. “There’s six of us and five seats.”

“Ooh! I call shotgun!” Richie shouted, rolling off of the hood and flinging himself into the passenger seat. He slammed the door behind him so hard the Honda rocked on its struts. Eddie grumbled a bunch of swears and wrenched his car door open. His keys jingled merrily as he stabbed them into the ignition.

Ben felt Beverly's small hand take his. It felt like when they danced. It already seemed like an old memory. “Can I sit in your lap?”

 _You can, but you really shouldn’t_. He was just about ready to faint, but he managed to nod his head a little.

“Wait! I don't want shotgun anymore!” Richie was flailing out of the window. “Switch with me, Benny-boy, I'm beggin' ya!”

“Too late, Trashmouth,” Mike snickered as he slid in next to Stan. Richie groaned.

“Owesies, Richie, shut the hell up.”

“ _Fuck_.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of want to talk about the Eddie for a bit because I'm being very deliberate about him here. He seems to be coming up in my discussions with friends and like, Discourse. Here I go,
> 
> For the purpose of this fic specifically, I'm having Eddie IN PARTICULAR interact with everyone because he needs six best friends just like everyone else and that doesn't get much attention in fic (same with Ben). Personally, legitimately, I cannot write him as so exclusively gay or straight that it shuts out any loser. Is all love sexual? No. But my goal as a writer is take make a pairing (in this case ALL pairings) seem plausible so I try to connect them to the source material as firmly as possible. Does Eddie have some type of chemistry with Stan? I found a little. Richie? Fuckin' duh. Ben? YES. Bev? Another duh. You get my point. Does this apply to a 2017 AU? Yes. The film and miniseries drew from the fucking novel, I mean seriously. All the same shit is there in some abridged form or another.
> 
> Anyway, it's cool to examine Eddie's sexuality. It's very interesting! His character arc kicks ass, it's so good. The problem comes from a) oversimplifying it and b) taking it too fucking seriously. Treating one extreme or another as fact in this case is pointless - like, let a guy/group be ambiguous. I say this as someone who fucking loves to analyze shit, my personal identity and preferences are moot. In my experience, lines from the book are taken out of context - not just regarding Eddie, but in a lot of cases - to prove a point. It's usually contradictory to other stuff AND/OR an intensely personal preference. My point: none of it matters because anyone can think up their own fan shit.
> 
> And listen...if you've read the novel, I mean...they're all gay to some degree and it's kind of open-ended/up for interpretation. I'm not crazy. CTRL+F "love you" and idk get a hose. This is how we get all this wiggle room to make the pairings we like WORK - mostly why I'm even writing for this damn book, ok. Guess how often we get an ensemble of main characters with this level of intimacy that doesn't result in soap opera drama. NOT OFTEN.
> 
> And that's why I write everyone with a big "YES, AND -".
> 
> I've been thinkin' about this stuff as I've written dear lil' Eds, so idk. I don't see people get as mad about other characters. It's wild to me??


	8. Love is careless in its choosing [Ben]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing short chapters per character for the quarry, so yeehaw! This fic is out of control and it won't die! HELP
> 
> Long boys stuffed into small car.  
> Ben gets car dust all over his ass in the woods.  
> Settle down, Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The same thing is happening with prom, so we're back to MORE AND SMALLER chapters. I want to make sure we get a few more layers to our climax even though the TRUE climax is in a different fic (lol kill me).
> 
> So, uh. Ben. Ben...do we love Ben? Yes. We do.
> 
> \----
> 
> When I don't know what to do  
> I just think about me and you  
> If I was a little stronger then I'd be bold  
> Something strange is happening to me  
> I don't know what these shivers mean to you  
> Is this the fiction kind of romance getting hold
> 
> “Fiction Romance”, Buzzcocks

 

 

 

Main Street was dark and empty, lit only by the few street lamps that still worked. It was late enough that the stoplights were flashing yellow, pulsing a lonely glow over each intersection. There was a similar quiet in the car full of cramped-up teenagers. They sat looking around, out the sweat-fogged windows, at anything but each other. Everyone was trying to figure out how they felt about the past 2 hours and how it may have affected things as they were. Ben knew for a fact that he’d come out of prom a little different. Beverly, even sitting on his lap, was still and quiet. It was almost as if their years apart finally caught up with them. Things felt weird for sure, but they didn't feel bad. He felt closer to them. That was good, that made everything worth it.

“Are you taking me home?”

Richie threw his elbow up over the seat and smirked back at her. “Yours or mine, baby?” She reached forward and pinched his cheek. “ _YOW!_ We're not! We're taking you to get hammered.”

She seemed pleased by the idea, wiggling eagerly where she sat. Ben shifted her away from his dick as well as he could, clamping his legs together and biting his fist. He was weak, so, so weak. “Sweet! Where are we going?”

“Secret.” Stan said coolly. He locked eyes with Ben, likely by accident. There was something in Stan’s gaze that made Ben tighten up again. He noticed Stan's eyes lingering on the curve of Beverly ass against his hips. Ben looked away, bringing his abused knuckles back to his mouth.

“Aw!” Beverly appealed to Mike instead, nudging him with her elbow. “C’mon, tell me.” He replied with a knowing smile. The ends of his perfectly arranged dreadlocks swayed across his eyes as he shook his head. “Alright, I’ll chill. Man, poor Bill’s been by himself this whole time.”

Eddie chuckled. “I think that was on purpose.”

“Fair.”

“We need some atmosphere, guys. Let’s see if Eddie-bear has any good tunes.” Richie, rarely one to wait for permission, opened the glove box. "Look at all this baby-makin' music. Eds, you _dog_." Eddie was too safe of a driver to bust his nose but Ben noticed his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “The hell? You have Black Flag?”

“Oh! I was looking for that,” Beverly said. "Sorry for junking up your car, Eds."

"S'okay."

Richie held it back for her to take. “Well, here ya go.” She shook her head and he put it back, shrugging “Slayer? Bev. Depeche Mode? Bev. so Bev it hurts.” His eyebrows shot up. “You guys have been listening to Liz Phair together?” He gave Eddie a mischievous side-look. “What kind of shenanigans -” Eddie flipped him off, keeping his eyes on the road. Richie dove back into the pile. “Oh ho. Never really took you for a fan of Peter Gabriel."

“That’s mine, too.” Beverly mumbled. Everyone but Eddie looked at her, wondering why she kept at least 15 tapes in his car. Ben was pretty sure they just hung out a lot during the summer and she never took them back. But Eddie was a steel trap when it came to certain things, and Bev was probably (maybe) having sex with Richie so who knew.

Richie was now examining a plain white cassette, lifting one eyebrow as he turned it over. Ben could see Beverly’s distinct handwriting sprawled across the front in black sharpie. Eddie looked startled. “Put that back! Just...put on the fucking Clash, _Christ_ , Rich.”

“Okay, okay! Man... _someone's_ testy.” There were some loud clacks followed by the distinctive click of the tape deck. “Wait, no no no, wrong side,” he muttered, poking a few buttons. “There! This is the good stuff, I'm telling you. _You say you stand - wah, wah, wah - by your man - wah, wah, wah - tell me somethi-_ ”

“That’s good, Rich, you can stop now.” Mike said mildly.

Richie snapped his mouth shut and settled for tapping his foot. He waited a few seconds before reminding the entire car that he liked Mick Jones’ vocals better than Strummer’s. He then resumed his foot-tapping.

“How do you do that?” Stan whispered under his breath. Mike only smiled in reply. No one in their group ever went against him - they never had a reason to. After Richie got over his shit with her the same was true of Beverly, but Mike had always been that way. He was a neutral presence you couldn’t help but respect - the cool dad to Bill’s tired yet _totally stone cold_ dad.

Ben’s thoughts fizzled out when Beverly leaned back against him. Her head fit perfectly in the dip between his neck and shoulder and her hair was so fucking soft against his cheek. The feeling of her relaxing against him could have driven him insane. He wondered if this was what waking up with her would feel like. Ben was ready to leave his body and just fuck off as a ghost for the rest of his existence. Then he remembered that he was 18 and it was June and life outside of Derry, away from his friends, was a heartbeat away.

 _Fuck it_.

Ben wrapped his arms around her waist, tucking her further into his lap. She sighed contentedly and he was sure the entire car heard it.

Mike caught his eye, close to busting up, and quickly turned his head to look out Stan’s window. Ben had to bite his lip to hold back a splitting, foolish grin.

He wouldn’t understand or accept it until years later, but Beverly had always loved him. What happened the night of senior prom could have happened whenever he wanted. Love from the others wasn’t something he had to kill himself to deserve because he’d earned it a long time ago - they all had. Most of them didn’t realize it, of course, but Bev and Richie figured it out early. They understood their bond better than Ben did even though they didn't remember what brought them together in the first place. The minute Ben finally let them love him, he’d begin to realize who and what the seven of them really were.

 

 

The turn-off for the quarry consisted of two steep little dirt tracks just off the county highway. Anyone driving past wouldn’t recognize it as anything more than a bald spot in the grass. As an added bonus, there was a secret overgrown circle of trees that blocked Eddie's car from the road - so well, in fact, that a spotlight wouldn’t turn up a single goddamn thing. The cops didn't know about their little spot as far as Ben knew. It was probably why they got away with their questionable night activities to begin with.

Everyone piled out of the little Honda the second Eddie killed the engine. For anyone above a certain height, being stuck in the back of Eddie’s car sucked majorly. Mike was origamied up in the middle seat and poor Stan had to hug his legs to his chest most of the way there. After some much needed de-cramping, there was a mad scramble to shed formal wear. Shorts and jeans and faded t-shirts flew between them like huge bats. Ben, who’d forgotten everything but his shoes, sat on the ground watching the chaos. It was fine until they started undressing. The only thing Ben could do was re-lace his sneakers. He may have glanced up a few times. Ben caught a glimpse of Stan’s flat, tan midriff, and Mike’s perfect, defined hips, and oh _god_ , Eddie’s soft thighs. He definitely glanced up a few times. Ben was drowning in the same feeling he had watching Richie’s nose bleeding up close. He got the feeling that this was setting one hell of a mood for the rest of the evening. At least his sneakers looked great.

“Fuck!” Beverly spat from behind the car.

"You okay back there?" Richie sing-songed at her.

"I forgot my shoes," she grumbled.

“You _don’t_ want to walk barefoot through the woods?”

“No, Richie. I fucking _don’t_ .” She took little steps around the car - cut-off shorts, crop top, barefoot - carefully avoiding sticks and rocks. Ben was ogling her like a total dumbass. _God, I love summer._ “Goddamnit! This sucks!”

Mike and Ben shared a look for what felt like the fiftieth time that night. Ben glanced around, unsure of what he was trying to communicate. Mike was tilting his head toward Beverly, staring at Ben with wide, expectant eyes. Ben may have gotten the hint is he wasn't completely fried. Breaking: being dog-piled by every raw teenage emotion in existence wasn't awesome.

Mike gave up. He turned around in front of Beverly and crouched down. “Hop on.”

_Oh._

She leapt onto him, hugging his neck and grinning like she wasn't totally pissed seconds before. Stan smiled at the two of them and clicked his flashlight on. They started off down the dirt path, breaking into some kind of goofy call and response song.

“Hey, Ben?” He blinked wearily and looked down at Eddie’s face, just level with his shoulder. He’d pulled on his old Airwolf t-shirt and some faded jean shorts, looking almost a decade younger than he did at prom. “Uh.” Eddie looked a little embarrassed and glanced over at Richie, who was now tying his yellow Chucks.

“What’s up?”

They made brief eye contact before he mumbled, “n-nevermind.” Eddie cleared his throat and took off to catch up with the others, nearly tripping over a tree root in the process.

Richie’s thin, flannel-clad arm snaked around Ben’s waist. “Haystack.”

The faint glow of Stan’s flashlight disappeared into the woods. The only sounds that remained were the low drone of crickets and Eddie’s distant footfalls. Ben felt like running himself. “Huh?”

“I think he likes you.” Richie said in an exaggerated whisper. It came out kind of squeaky with the state his nose was in, but Ben didn’t have a laugh for it. The way Eddie had been acting toward him since they left was kind of weird and tense. But they had _all_ been weird and tense, so Richie was full of shit. _Why am I even going with this thought._

“Oh, shut up.” He snorted, making to playfully shove him off but Richie’s hand flew to the back of his neck again and Ben froze. It felt like his chest was in a vice grip and being close to him was wrenching it tighter and tighter. _You’re going to lose it on him. Take a breath, dude_. There was something to be said for jumping into a fist fight together, he supposed. Richie smiled - fox-like, and frustratingly smug to anyone but Ben who looked at him the same way. His voice caught in his throat. “At least buy me a drink first.”

He shrugged before pulling Ben into a bruising kiss. He tasted like blood and it was definitely gross but it was _them_. A rearview mirror jabbed into Ben's lower back but the pain was faint - it was nothing compared to being slammed against a car door and having his lip bitten and feeling Richie semi-hard against his thigh.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed, fisting a hand in Richie’s shaggy hair. “Rich, chill -”

“Can’t. Sorry.” His voice dropped to a growl.

Richie licked metallic tang into his mouth and Ben’s other hand found his lapel, tugging him closer. Kissing Richie was messy and rough - it made his blood pump like he was angry or panicking but it was a fucking rush. It could have been the blood taste setting him off but he kept getting clear images of what he’d _like_ to do to him. They moved fast together, almost breakneck, and he had to hold back or god knew what would happen. He didn’t trust himself with Rich anymore than he did with Beverly. They were dangerous together, Ben realized, and the thought turned him on miserably. _Just kiss him. You can kiss him_ . _It doesn’t have to be heavy_ . But their bodies were impossibly close, almost flattened together, and Ben couldn’t move anywhere without feeling him. He felt him alright. The urge to give _him_ a turn backed up against Eddie's car nagged at Ben for a moment.

Then Richie dropped to his knees.

Ben definitely needed a shot of _something_ before that would happen.

“Hey, whoa, hold on.” He carded his fingers through Richie’s bangs, gently pushing him away. Had Ben swallowed any harder, his voice box would’ve dropped right into his stomach. “That’s...not a good idea.”

Richie cocked his head to look up at him. There was a second of panicky regret. “I respectfully disagree, but,” he sighed and stood up, “whateva’ you say, boss.” Forgetting what Richie looked like at that angle would be difficult. _Damn near impossible_.

Ben frowned a little and slung an arm around Richie's shoulders. It was dark so he kissed his cheek before he found his lips. “I, uh.” _Love you even though I'm an idiot and I can't fucking say it to your face._ He grunted and kissed him again. Richie made a soft noise in the back of his throat and it almost made Ben shove him back to his knees. _Don't do it, Ben, there's a time and a place and I guess this isn't fucking it. FUCK!_

It was quick, but Richie took his hand and placed a soft kiss on raw knuckles before slipping out from under him. “We oughta catch up or they're gonna think I’m _actually_ sucking your dick.”

“ _Oh my god_.”

“Or they’re gonna think we got murdered by that hook guy.”

“What?”

Richie turned back to face him while he walked. “From the urban legend...with the hook in the car door.” He did a little hook gesture and grinned.

“Richie.” He gave Ben a quizzical look. “What the fuck.”

“Everybody gets some in a slasher film,” he said with a wink.

Ben cuffed him on the chin. “Turn around before you trip, dipshit.”

“You’d catch me.”

“Thanks for believing in me.”

“Thanks for giving me wood in the woods.”

“I’m going to kick your ass.”

"Please don't."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for Bill.


	9. Love is careless in its choosing [Bill]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the "oh god all of my friends are making out" chapter.
> 
> they're getting faded  
> the relationships are intensifying - quite a few are gonna Go The Fuck Off in the next installment of this 90's garbage saga.  
> boys kissing.gif
> 
> OH! PSA: Trashstack. You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE DELAY.
> 
> I'm doing that thing where I juggle events in the chapters and get distracted by other things.
> 
> I don't like how the movie skipped over Stan's weird/dry sense of humor - like, when he's being a goof, he's seriously a goof. I tried to work that into Drunk Stan. Amorous goofball. I think that's most of what he holds back. ANYWAY.
> 
> \----
> 
> So many things we left unsaid  
> So many feelings left for dead  
> A love affair like this could last  
> I take a trip back through the past  
> It tears my heart out deep inside  
> To think of times I spent inside
> 
> “Pleasure and the Pain”, The Damned

 

 

Bill was already half-drunk lying on his back. He was beside their untouched fire pit, muttering to himself. It only took him half an hour or so to tidy up their space. However long it took to dust off some log benches, or kick old leaf piles into the bushes and hide Stan’s booze and the like. Ben, always the forward-thinker, gathered a decent amount of firewood earlier that day so Bill spent the last bit of daylight laying the blankets and sleeping bags out in his trunk. It was a warm night, but the temperature would drop before morning. Beverly learned that the hard way at the beach and wound up giving everyone a summer cold.

“Cygnus...so then,” he shut one eye and traced a finger straight down, “Aquila? Wait…” He may or may not have sampled some of the Fireball that Ben asked for - why everyone seemed so fixated on cinnamon-flavored liquor was a mystery. “Am I facing the wrong way?”

A bright light stabbed out of the dark and blared into his eyes. Bill groaned, "who this fuck is that?"

“ _Krrkt_ \- we’ve got a young Caucasian male in the abandoned rock quarry - public intoxication - I’m gonna need some back-up.” It was Stan’s voice.

Bill flipped him the bird.

“Gimme that,” Beverly chided.

Bill’s eyes readjusted. Two dark shapes were dumping armfuls of sticks next to the fire pit - Mike and Eddie judging by the height difference. “Where are Ben and Richie?”

Stan sounded like he was on the verge of a wicked laugh. “They’re coming.” Beverly’s faint silhouette smacked him on the arm. “Sorry.”

“Can you get the matches while you’re over there?” Eddie asked.

“Sure. Chuck me that flashlight, will ya?” The little beam of light wobbled through the air and Stan caught it deftly. The campsite plunged back into natural darkness.

“How’s nature?” Bill felt Beverly drop to her bottom next to him.

“Alright. Could definitely use some Top 40,” he replied.

“Aw, but it’d scare all of the bigfoots away,” Beverly said.

“There are b-b-bigfoots in Muh-maine?”

“With our sweater weather? No duh!”

“What about the Mothman?”

“He’s from West Virginia, Eddie,” Beverly giggled.

“So what! It’s summer up here. He can fly.”

Bill started laughing. They were all so fucking weird and he never knew if it was because of or in spite of each other. “Did I miss anything?” Mike seemed unsure of whether he should say anything. Eddie continued stuffing twigs between the fire logs like a reverse game of Jenga.

Stan stepped over Mike and sat on Bill’s other side with a, “ _did you._ ” His voice had already taken on a light drunken swagger. “Head’s up, Eddie.” The match box rattled across the pit and smacked the poor guy right in the face. Stan ignored his sharp swear and took a pull straight from his full bottle of schnapps. _Why are they throwing everything?!_

Beverly reached across Bill and took the flashlight from him. She set it on its bottom like a lamp so Mike and Eddie, who was rubbing his forehead, could see what they were doing. Eddie murmured a little _"Thanks, Bevvie."_

“Ben and Richie got into a fist fight,” Stan said.

Bill raised an eyebrow. “With each other?”

“No! No, no." Stan shook his head. His hair fell over his eyes, as done with prom as the rest of them. "That jock who messed with Bev.” There was a subtle pink on Beverly’s cheeks when she yanked his Goldschläger bottle away from him. She grumbled and tipped it back between her lips before making a pained face and pushing it back at him. “Good thing we left when we did. I think Ben really fucked him up, like..." He sipped at the bottle again. "Fucked him up.”

A tiny fire was creeping through the twisted up newspapers and sticks in the pit. “All I know is, come Monday, we’re going to pay for our crimes,” Mike said, rearranging and poking the pile with a stick. He spoke with a false sobriety that had Beverly (their dear, sweet lightweight) laughing against Stan's arm.

Stan raised his bottle. “To crimes.”

“We can’t do toasts yet!” Eddie scrambled to his feet. It was a little weird that he wasn’t the first one drinking. The quiet anxiety that had tormented him during prom was gone. It was nice to see him acting like himself again, snappy and confident. “Mike, Makers. Bev, ‘Gansett. Bill?”

“I’m good for now.”

"Beer me, little man. Papa needs a _cold_ one." The gravelly, swaggering voice belonged to Richie. Bill thought it was what the Brawny paper towels guy would have sounded like. He turned to the fire pit. “You big boys ready to do some logging?”

“Ayuh,” Mike and Beverly replied. Stan was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Where’ve you guys been?” Bill asked.

“Lost because someone fucked off with our one flashlight.” The glow of the campfire’s early blaze lit Ben’s stoic expression - suspicious next to Richie’s face-busting grin. _Curiouser and curiouser._

Bill noticed a loud, dark bruise smudged over Richie’s nose. “Jesus, you guys really did throw down.”

"We threw hands, I got thrown, whole lotta throwin', Big Bill," Richie said. Ben nudged him in the ribs. They were the image of camaraderie, like they had just lived through a war together. If it weren’t for the obvious physical differences, they could’ve been brothers. There was the possibility that they were fooling around as well. At that point, Bill just assumed that was the case with most of them. "Look at Haystack, though." Richie held a resigned-looking Ben's wrist up to the firelight. "You ever see something this badass?"

Bill gaped. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It's nothing." Ben waved him off. _"Nothing"_ looked like someone had taken a vegetable peeler to his knuckles.

"Fuck! I forgot to do your cuts!” Eddie shouted from the car.

“Give me that fuckin’ solo cup and we’re square, Eds.”

Richie bounded over to him. “Ooh, lemme in on that sweet action!” Eddie threatened a very different sort of action that shut him up quick.

There was a cantata of plastic cups followed by a round of haphazard liquor pouring. It took some time for the other six to wind down after running on pure chaotic energy for hours. The seven finally arranged themselves in a loose circle and Bill felt that all was right again. The mood eased into something more natural for them, more amiable. Bill was glad he left prom when he did. They were all exhausted from that night's trial - a bloody trial in Ben and Richie's case - but they lived. _They lived more than I did_ , he thought.

Stan had ( _already_ , Bill thought) scooted over to Mike’s side. They were having an animated conversation about Prince as far as he could tell - _it's about sex 99 percent of the time, Stan, let's not complicate it_ . Stan was leaning heavily against Mike’s arm. One wouldn't be able to guess with how little time they spent together, but they had always been close. Stan wasn't the most honest person when it came to his emotions, but Mike understood him from day one. He had always been the most observant - not the most empathic or intuitive, but he could read a person with one look. As far as Bill knew, Stan was the only person Mike had ever allowed to kiss him. He couldn't blame him - even though Stan had introduced Bill to the kissing equivalent of a street brawl earlier that evening. It was nice at _first_.

Bill's eyes wandered over to Eddie and Ben. The smaller of the two had positioned himself between Ben’s long legs and was now lounging back against him. _They probably didn't do that during track practice._ Eddie was holding Ben's hand, examining the raw, scabbed-over wounds with the eyes of a drunk surgeon. Ben didn't seem to notice. He was regaling Richie and Bev with a story about getting the new children’s librarian’s number. Eddie patted around next to them and found Ben's cup. He took a deep swig of whatever was in it.

“Bill…” He was about to turn his head when Bev flopped back across his thighs. He was about to do a lot of things - like think normal human thoughts. All he could manage was incoherent, psychic slobbering. Her hair was lush, curling around her cheeks, almost glowing hot in the firelight. “Hey.”

He looked down into her shadowed eyes and brushed her bangs away from her forehead. There was always conflict inside of him when it came to Beverly Marsh. He was glad that she was so loved by the others, and that they gave her the love she deserved because he was a fucking idiot. Bill _loved_ Beverly. They were so alike, and she understood him in ways no one else could, but he was convinced he would only hurt her. Bill had nothing to give her that she didn't already have.

“Doin’ okay?” She nodded, looking very relaxed. “Where’d your shoes go?”

“Forgot ‘em. I’m still pissed about it,” she said, glaring up into the treetops. She then raised her hand to his cheek and his stomach did some weird acrobatic stunt. He caught Richie out of the very corner of his eye, watching them both. Beverly grinned and, for some reason, dragged her finger down over his lips. “I’m still pissed at you, too.”

He was sweaty, so damn sweaty. And so weirdly turned on. Between the fire and the drunkenness and Beverly, Bill was sure he would melt any second. “You sure _look_ pissed.”

“I love you, dumbass.” Bill wanted her to himself, for fuck's sake - just five fucking minutes, _please, god_.

A similar affectionate expression was on the very edge of his lips when Richie squawked, “do a speech, Big Bill!” Bill looked up from Beverly into his bright, eager face. Things had been so dead between them that he couldn't tell if Richie was being sincere anymore. “Give The Losers Club a good send-off, eh?” He winked and tilted his Solo cup to him like it was a champagne glass.

“Are you serious?”

“Do it, do it,” Stan chanted. Eddie joined in. _Oh god, they’re under the fucking table._ “Dooo iiiit!”

Ben and Beverly were laughing too hard to comment so Bill relented. “Alright. Lemme get a drink real quick.”

“I gotcha,” Mike chuckled, releasing a very giggly Stan. “Catch.” A ‘Gansett pinwheeled over the fire in a perfect arc and landed neatly in Bill’s lap. “Good catch.”

Beverly bridged her hips up and pulled a bottle opener out of her pocket. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her naked hips. Those damn micro denim shorts were driving him a little nuts if he was being honest. He tried not to picture her shimmying out of her cutoffs at the beach, taking care not to take her bottoms off with them. She was wearing the striped two piece that became a one piece when Richie yanked her top off. Bill was pretty sure they all remembered. He wished he wasn't remembering it now. She sat up and pressed the bottle opener into his hand like it was a priceless heirloom. Bill was about to say something, or run a hand through her hair like he always wanted to, but she tipped away from him. Richie's arm was around her waist.

 _Whatever will they do without each other_ , Bill thought bitterly. “Gimme a minute.” _Thank god lager goes down easy._ He got a good half of the bottle down in one go, enough to get back to his former pleasant buzz. “Alright, so uh,” he cleared his throat.

Everyone’s eyes were on him, like when they were kids, only with very different bodies and cups of hard liquor. _Not a super accurate comparison, I guess_ . He felt the same love for them, though. They may not have trusted him like before, but they still looked to him and, at this point, he wasn't sure he deserved them. His lip twitched and he looked up, watching embers leaping into the air. It was the same as the darkest night at the beach, but that bonfire felt less like a funeral pyre. _God, stop it_. “Let me preface with an apology -” Richie booed him. “Beep beep.” He stopped right away, hiding his face in Beverly’s hair like a child. “For the past five years, I’ve been...” He chewed his lip, unsure of how much or how little to say. The wide-eyed look between Ben and Mike didn’t go unnoticed. “Somewhere else. I haven’t been there for you guys - _us_ , like I should have. I think we all know that when one of us leaves, well, it hurts. It hurts like hell.” Stan’s pale eyes, flushed with blaring yellows and whites, didn’t leave Bill’s face once. He wasn't sure if he even blinked. It was a little unnerving. “I feel shitty about the way I've been, and...I don’t want you guys to think I don’t love you.”

“Bill,” Beverly murmured. Her voice was so close to his ear, and he wanted to say again and again: _don't think I don't love you_.

He smiled. “I want you to know that I always have and always will. I don’t know if I’d even be here without you.” He glanced at Richie, solemn-faced and waving his plastic cup back and forth by the lip. Bill saw him again as a buck-toothed kid choking up on a baseball bat and saving his fucking life with one swing. That time was so short - each of them dropping everything, _doing anything_ , for each other. “So, I think some congratulations are in order.” Confused looks passed between them, save Mike, who smiled into his cup. “We survived high school, we’re not dead, and we’re all here together...even if it’s just for one fucked up night. If we ever get the chance to get together like this again,” Bill paused, his words now coming to him in one emotional rush. “You guys better fucking survive until then.” Everyone smiled, some giggled, but the air was thick with sadness, perhaps longing. Forgetting each other wasn't the worst thing that could happen to their group. Bill had to remind himself of that. He had to hope they would never know the pain of having an empty space in their circle. “Here’s to survival.”

Bill watched them raise their bottles and cups, then take however much of a swallow they needed. They looked older to him - as beyond their years as he'd felt for so long. Mike and Ben finished their drinks. It still wasn’t clear to Bill why he kept thinking about needing all of them and seeing them older. It was a near-constant stream of thoughts in his head, weaving between his fears and bad memories. _Beverly said something about that once. Going back...but we’re our parents’ age_.

“You beautiful wordsmith,” Richie sighed lovingly. “You know how hot it gets me when you _orate_.”

Bill smiled a little. “Thanks, Rich.” He kissed the air in reply. _Jesus, I’m gonna miss him_.

“Hey, uh,” Stan was swirling the contents of his cup around. “Is it cool if I say something real quick? Not a big deal or anything.”

“Lay it on us, Stan the Man.”

He blinked hard, looking like he was trying to clear his head. “I don’t do stuff like this very often, but -”

“Non- _sense_ ,” Richie interjected. “You guys should’ve been at his bar mitzvah.” Richie stretched _"bar mitzvah"_ out a few seconds longer than he should have. Beverly elbowed him.

“Beep-...” Stan paused to stifle a burp. "Shut up.”

“ _I got to wear that little, uh - on my head,_ ” Richie whispered. Beverly glared and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Eddie giggled - softly, airily leaning back into Ben. _Curious...curious..._

Stan sighed and began in a slow, steady voice. “It's not really a secret that I've been kind of fucked up in the head for a while.”

Mike, Ben, and Bill made brief eye contact. It felt cruel - hell, it _was_ cruel - that they knew and Stan had suffered for years from a memory long forgotten. Bill often felt selfish withholding Stan's memory of the woman in the painting. He knew Mike and Ben felt the same way. They didn't want to lose him to night terrors and panic attacks so severe he couldn't even function. It almost happened anyway. They'd never know if keeping so many painful memories to themselves was the right call, but Stan had them. They would take care of him. For now.

“I asked a lot of some of you, and...y'know, sometimes I wasn't there when I could've been.” He turned to Beverly for a moment, his face pained. It was quick, but Bill was drawn in by that look, drawn in by them. Beverly's eyes were fixed on his. She looked ready to cry. Richie, now with his arms around Beverly's waist, sniffed and rested his cheek on her shoulder. Bill had the crazy idea that he had siphoned her emotions out just by touching her. “I just, you know, I hope you guys know how much I love you." He glanced at Richie, “even you, fuckface.” They exchanged teary grins and he sniffled. “It's just...I'm sorry for making you guys put up with my bullshit -” he held a hand up, silencing their soft protests, “because I put up with yours and it's only fair.”

Ben snorted and the entire circle lost themselves to giggles. Stanley's face was a little puffy and his ass was covered in dirt, but he was still beautiful. They were all beautiful. Any one of them, at any time, could change how their group felt if they wanted. They were connecting again. Bill had been so detached for so long. It almost hurt, he almost couldn't take everything he felt from the others, but he loved them. _I don’t want to leave them, I don’t want them to leave - I can’t leave Derry...I can’t leave Mike_. He fiercely wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve, muttering about dirt.

“Anyway, uh, yeah. Sorry to kvetch and all. I'm going to get shitfaced now.”

“We love you, Stan,” said Ben.

Eddie nodded, blushing and smiling blissfully. "You're very pretty," he slurred, as if agreeing with something no one had said.

Mike cracked up for a second, then leaned over and kissed Stan's cheek. Stan returned it almost immediately. Bill wondered if poor Mike would get dragged off into the woods again.

Beverly, tipsy enough that she had to crawl, skirted the fire and cuddled up against Stan’s other side. It seemed odd - no, _new_ for some reason. He certainly stared at her a lot when they were younger, and their brief yet playful interactions in high school were innocent enough. But Stan didn’t stroke the _guys_ ’ cheeks, nor did he scoop them into too-tall hugs from behind. Beverly sure as hell didn’t get quiet and embarrassed with the others, either. They were doing shots together now, laughing at each others ridiculous gag faces. Bill pretended he didn’t see Stan’s arm around her waist, drawing his fingertips over her bare skin in lazy circles. He didn't want to admit that it made him jealous because there was no point in feeling that way. Something had changed. It was very different from when they had bonded as kids. Years had passed since then, but it felt like decades. They were adults now, and Bill supposed it was meant to be this way for them.

He looked over at Richie, lanky and starfished out on the dusty ground. He was tipsy and mumbling constellation names as Bill was before they arrived. His t-shirt had ridden up to his belly button and he was balancing his cup on his chest like a drunk otter.

Past Richie’s body, a short ways around the fire, Ben and Eddie sat balled up together in the dirt. It looked pretty funny, even with Ben’s hand on Eddie’s knee and Eddie’s hand on _Ben’s_ shoulder -

 _Oh my god_.

Bill didn’t know if Eddie had ever kissed anyone. He couldn’t _count_ how many girls had kissed Ben Hanscom. But Ben was now tipping Eddie’s chin up. And Eddie was touching his chest. They were easing into those first short kisses before a serious make-out session and Bill was transfixed. It was like if car wrecks were kind of hot. Or maybe like watching a baking show knowing you'll never get that cake even though it looks incredible - _fuck, what am I even talking about?_ Bill couldn’t describe what he was feeling, he just couldn’t look away. He should have. Things got a little heated and it looked like Eddie had Ben’s tongue in his mouth. Or the other way around. _Jesus, Eddie’s an aggressive drunk_.

A cup suddenly blocked his view and Bill felt Richie pressing against his side. “ _Ayuda me_ and finish this, Guillermo...wait...Guille. That’s, like, Bill in Spanish..”

He snorted, then knocked back a shot of coconut rum. _I don’t remember buying coconut rum_. “I think you might be drunk.”

“I think you might be right.”

Bill tousled Richie's hair to get the dust out - so much dust that it looked eight shades lighter. “When’re we getting the chart out?”

“The night is young and I am young, and also fucked up.” _Richie Tozier: the articulate drunk_. “Maybe later. I’m feeling like a little game, howza ‘bout you?”

Their eyes met and Bill smirked. “Can’t have you bored. God knows what you’d do.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put Bill in a weird position in this fic partly because of his inconsistent characterization just...in general. I reworked some parts to address the fact that he shares "power" with Bev in the movie - like, she got some of his original leader-type scenes and is just...more dominant in general. Have I mentioned that Bill is all the fuck over the place?
> 
> Bev is next!
> 
>  


	10. Love is careless in its choosing [Beverly]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepover game gone wrong.  
> Hey, you know how I said Bev is bisexual? Here's the thing.  
> Stan. It's him. He does it.
> 
> (There was so much sexual tension to work through in this chapter that I almost turned in my badge and gun and left for a more peaceful life.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is stranger than I thought  
> Six different ways inside my heart  
> And everyone I'll keep tonight  
> Six different ways go deep inside
> 
> \- “Six Different Ways”, The Cure

 

 

Beverly Marsh wasn’t nearly as drunk as she wanted to be. They were in the middle of a game of “Never Have I Ever” (because they were _totally_ a bunch of sophomores at a sleepover) and she was about to lose it. She didn't have to drink for most of the questions, thankfully. If she kept drinking, she would throw up. If she threw up, it would be all over Stan. Her stomach was in knots because she was dwelling on one scandalous, unexpected thing she had done that night. She made out with him.

When Bill started isolating himself, Beverly felt like part of her had gone with him. They were always close, almost the same person at times, and, as dumb as it sounded, she felt like they were soul mates. But then he vanished. Even when she saw him at school, he wasn't really there. It seemed that way, at least. She was hurting. As a result, Beverly realized her bonds with the others - how she needed them and how they needed each other. Stan was the exception. At some point in their high school career, he began treating her differently from the others. Stan didn’t do anything obnoxious like deciding she was weak or needed protecting. (Beverly shut that down right away when she started hanging out with them.) He just started doing things a boyfriend would do. People joked about it but she didn’t think of them as boyfriends. Beverly had worked so hard to be “one of the guys” and she didn't want that to change. The stress of maturing into a woman still made her feel like a burden to them. But, she thought guiltily, it was fun to have one of them kiss her forehead or pick her up for no reason. Stan was the only one of them who teased her that way.

She leaned into him, turning her thoughts over in her head. She was wound up so painfully tight that her stomach felt like a lead bowling ball. Every time he spoke up or laughed, she could feel his arm reflexively tighten around her waist. Every time his fingers passed over her bare skin, she almost jumped away from him. It was pure tension, exactly what someone would feel on a first date. Being with Stan came with a constant insecurity. She loved him, and knew him, but there was always something missing.

No one really made her feel that way since Bill, or since -

“Never have I ever..." Richie shot Eddie a smug grin. "...kissed someone of the _same_ sex.”

“That’s _bullshit_!”

“Rules are rules, m’lad.”

Eddie glared daggers at Richie over the rim of his cup. Everyone else drank as well - of course they did. The guys picked strange times and places to fool around, but they always found once excuse or another. It had crossed her mind before. Thoughts of them spooning in their tents, pulling each other into rough, playful kisses, pinning each other to the ground, or _god_ , to a wall - she was only human, for fuck's sake. They were being honest, though.

_We don’t keep things from each other._

There was one relationship that Beverly hid from them and that moment seemed like a good time to come clean. It didn't take The Losers Club long to notice their high school flings fizzling out within a few months (if that). They went especially quick if the others got involved. Beverly groped around in the dirt next to her for her half full cup.

The campfire was silent, save the splintering pops and snaps in the fire pit. She felt Stan’s shoulder go rigid against her. _Play it cool, maybe they didn’t even notice. It’s no big deal, anyway. Why would it shock them? Did they look at me and never suspect it? With the way I dress?_ Beverly wiped her mouth, tilting her head back and admiring the trees. _They’re nice trees._ The night sky was pitch dark now. She could almost make out the treetops silhouetted against Derry’s light pollution. _Welcome back to The Joy of Painting with Beverly Marsh._

“Who’d you mess around with?” Eddie blurted.

“Jesus, Eds!" Richie hissed.

She couldn’t look at them and only dared to mumble, “i-it happened, so I drank."

Bill cleared his throat.

“Hey, that’s cool, Bev. I think it’s Ben’s turn.” Mike’s steady, mild voice helped some of the panic subside - she felt Stan relax a little next to her.

It did feel a little weird glossing over the fact that she liked girls when none of them knew about it. _Somehow_. Still, the story that went with it was a total wreck and she had trouble going through it again herself. _I should tell them._

Beverly looked up in time to catch Eddie staring expectantly at Richie, who threw his hands up in mock defense. “Hey, I didn’t know about it! Just that Bev gets _really_ into girl bands if you catch my -” a twig bounced off of his head and he flinched. _Thanks, Mike_.

Eddie started wringing his hands, hazarding a glance in Beverly’s direction. The shy, worried look on his face reminded her that he never had trouble opening up to her. Who were they and why was she there if she didn’t trust them? “I'm sorry, guys.”

“You don’t have to tell us, Bev,” Ben said. His expression wasn’t shy at all but he still met her eyes carefully. “No big deal, right?” He crossed his arms over Eddie’s chest and pulled him back against him.

“Quit tryin’ to get brownie points, jerk off.” Eddie smiled around the insult, clearly won over by Ben running his fingers through his dark hair. _God, they're cute_.

Beverly picked at the label on her beer bottle for a minute while the others went quiet again. There were a few things she never shared with them and she had always felt terrible about it. It was bad enough that she _couldn’t_ talk about her parents. Having something else on top of it wasn’t doing her any favors. She figured it was time for this one - if only to ease up on her conscience.

“Sally,” she said.

“Sally _Mueller?!_ ” Eddie squeaked. Stan nearly choked on his mouthful of liquor.

“Hey, you and Bev have something in common -”

“Richie, shut the _fuck_ up!”

There was a long pause.

Mike shifted where he sat and turned to Beverly. “I know the least about this stuff, but she’s bullied you since elementary school, right?” Stan nodded between them before she could reply. “ _When was this?_ ”

Beverly’s eyes suddenly felt heavy, like she would either fall asleep or burst into tears. “End of sophomore year.” The circle went quiet again and she nearly lost her nerve. Stan hesitated before placing a hand on her shoulder. The rest of him went with it and he ended up kind of spooning her upright. It was a rare moment of open kinship and reassurance that any of them could make her feel safe, awkward as it was. “You know how people can be different when it’s just one-on-one? Well, uh, that kinda happened.” She kept her eyes trained on her bare feet, rubbing them together back and forth in the dirt. “I ran into her at the gas station out toward Skowhegan. Y'know, the one with the really good ice cream.”

The “deer in the headlights” feeling from that day rushed back. It was nearly 90 degrees and Beverly was up to her tits in sweat. She was hunting around in the drinks when the Princess of West Broadway walked in. Beverly was convinced she was suffering from heat stroke. Sally Mueller wouldn’t be caught dead in a dumpy gas station like that. It was on the outskirts of Derry, light-years away from the rich neighborhoods. Beverly tried to hide at first, ducking down in front of the magazine racks and hoping to god the blots of sweat on her tank top would dry up. It was a flawed strategy. Beverly realized too late that she was crouched in front of the new issues of _YM_ and _Seventeen_.

“I dunno, we talked a little - she asked me about motor oil,” Beverly laughed dryly. “I just remember standing there reading bottles and waiting for her to throw something at me, but she fuckin’ - sorry, this is boring.” _God, it’s so dumb, I can’t do it._

“No,” Eddie was staring at her, unblinking. “Go on- i-if you want.”

She took another breath, a little tempted to ask for his inhaler. “Sally bought me ice cream.”

The others’ eyes went wide. Bill’s mouth was actually hanging open. The guys watched the Keene/Mueller campaign over the years. After what happened the minute they hit the gym that night, Sally Mueller buying Beverly Marsh ice cream sounded like a heavy-handed sarcastic joke.

“It was so weird. I helped her put oil in her car and...she, like, just hung out with me for a while and asked me how I did my eyeliner and shit. Then she drove off and I was just like _“well, fuck”_ \- so I mean, later in school and stuff, she kept her shit up while Gretta was around but I dunno. I guess everyone else she hung out with had stuff going on ‘cause she came down to the auditorium a few times and sat on the piano bench with me.” Richie gaped at her. “We used to play together up until 3rd grade. It kinda felt like that again, but...Jesus, I don’t know what to do around pretty girls any better than you guys.”

Ben let out a laugh, but Eddie ignored it. He was fascinated. “Did you always like her?”

“M-maybe.” _Deer in the headlights_. “I mean, she could forget about being a total bitch sometimes.”

“I remember that!” Richie cackled. “You raised your hand in 5th grade English and asked the teacher why we were reading a book about lesbians and Sally started losing it behind her trapper keeper!”

“Right. That time Beverly made a joke about Anne Frank. Classic,” Stan said reverently. “Mr. Harris fucking looked at me, too, like I’d be offended or something.”

“I remember the face you made!” Bill piped up - he was wasted. “And how you kept looking from Harris to Bev for like...10 straight seconds.” Stan groaned loudly.

“He tried to hide that part, too.” Eddie took a quick sip from his cup. “Know how many times I read that part?” Beverly nearly tipped over she was laughing so hard.

“How erotic,” Richie said huskily.

He screwed his face up, gesturing with his solo cup. “ _You_ read it way more than _I_ did, you... _horny bitch_.”

Everyone, Richie included, burst into raucous laughter. _Drunk Eddie Kaspbrak gets off another good one_. They weren't about to calm down anytime soon.

“I still have my copy, Big Bill, please! You make it sound like sexual velvet!”

“You are so f-fuh-fucked up!”

An extended conversation erupted among the guys. It ran together in her head; she was still reeling from her memory, hell, her _confession_.

_“Wait, did you guys have the unabridged version?”_

_“Say what?”_

_“I checked the original version out from the library and it is, well, I mean, I learned a lot.”_

_“About lesbians?”_

_“Pretty sure Anne Frank was bisexual, dude.”_

_“It’s still there, I can confirm this.”_

_“Take me to the library! Show me where the racy stuff is -”_

_“Settle down, Richie, holy shit!”_

_“No! I crave knowledge! Expand my mind!”_

_"What is your_ malfunction _, dude?"_

Stan tucked his face between her neck and her shoulder. The sudden closeness startled her back into a more lucid state. “So, did you kiss or something?” He said it in a low voice and her heart was back in her throat.

“C’mon, don't ask her that,” Mike said, elbowing him gently before turning back to the others. “ _What_ \- Richie, don’t even joke about that!”

She heard Stan swallow close to her ear. “Sorry. That was rude of me.”

Beverly brought a hand up to pet his hair. It felt awkward, and kind of stupid of her, but her heart was going crazy. “It's okay.” The tension had reached capacity. She didn’t know how to begin dealing with it. _He’s your friend. You love your friends. You trust your friends. Stop freaking out_.

“ _Alright, alright, alright._ Ben! Give us a good one!” Richie shouted.

“Will you pipe the fuck down?” Eddie snapped. “Every serial killer within 20 miles is gonna come stab us in our sleep!”

“I told you, Haystack! Slasher film! Who’s getting laid first?”

“Not you.” Ben smirked at his indignant squawk. “Never have I ever...been robbed.”

“Do erasers count?”

“Of course they do, Eds. What kind of sick fuck would take a little boy’s fruit-shaped erasers?”

“Beep-beep, Ruh-ruh-richie.”

It was totally lame, but Beverly could have fallen asleep where she sat. Stan nuzzled beneath her jaw, almost like he was having the same thought. Sometimes she forgot how easy everything was with them. The heavy things she lived with day-to-day were distant - old nightmares that faded the longer they were together. The day had been intense start to finish, but it was nice only thinking of and being with people who loved her. There was power in their togetherness and she wished she could stop obsessing over losing it.

Finding someone to fill the shoes of six people felt impossible. She _knew_ it was impossible. It didn't matter how nice they seemed at first - every guy, every relationship outside of their little circle was a disaster. Beverly always came out on the other side with more regrets and bruises than anything else. The one person she didn’t regret hurt her in a different way.

 

 

_“Oh my god, this sucks, Marsh.” There was a smile in Sally Mueller's voice that could make any insult sound like a compliment. It was much nicer than her usual sneer. “I’d ask who you’re playing but I probably wouldn’t know, anyway.”_

_Beverly drew her hands away from the keys. “It’s supposed to be Joy Division.” Sally raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. It was really hard to look her in the eyes, especially after years of disgusted looks and glaring laughter. “They, uh, helped start the post-punk movement. Th-the lead singer died and the rest of the band formed New Order and -”_

_“Marsh.” Sally’s eyes were hazel; Beverly loved how they changed color and matched hers of the lighting was right. “Ugh.” Her leg swung over the bench and Beverly almost saw right up her mini skirt. “You don’t have to be so nervous, you nerd.”_

Is this how guys feel? _Sally was straddling the bench and Beverly struggled to look away from her thighs. But her hair - oh god, it was amazing. Honey blonde wasn’t her natural hair color, but it flattered her so well, and it was falling out of her messy ponytail. Beverly wanted to yank on her pink scrunchie and grab handfuls of her perfect wavy locks. Sally could afford conditioner so top-shelf that it wasn’t even stocked in grocery stores and pharmacies._ Her hair must feel like silk _._

 _Sally giggled at the dumb look on her face._ No doubt. _“Oh my god, will you just look at me?”_

No, because you’re pretty and you pull off turquoise eye shadow better than any girl our age should. _She shyly obeyed her. Beverly didn't get a chance to breathe before Sally’s strawberry lip gloss was smearing into her dark red lipstick. It was Beverly’s first time kissing a girl. The way her heart was pounding was proof that it was real, that she liked - no,_ loved _\- how a girl’s lips felt. Sally’s thighs splayed over top of hers was the hottest thing she had ever seen - it felt like a bomb went off inside of her. They should have stopped. The piano was smack in the middle of the auditorium stage. Anyone could have walked in and noticed two girls nearly crotch to crotch on a piano bench with their tongues down each others’ throats. But there was no way in hell she would fuck it up by saying_ "oh, gee, we better stop" _. Shit on that._ _They couldn't have cared less. She tossed Sally's stupid pink scrunchie somewhere behind them and plunged her hands into Sally’s_ tresses _of golden hair - honest to god_ tresses _because she was a fucking rich princess. Beverly Marsh would never get another chance with her in her life. She’d been in love with Sally Mueller since she was six and hadn’t met a girl as beautiful in the decade since then._

_That afternoon in the auditorium was pure irony. The girl who made it impossible for her to even begin to figure out that she liked girls was making out with her. Sally helped make Beverly’s life a living hell over the years. Most girls in school wouldn't associate with her at all. Those who did still kept their distance. Making friends with incoming freshman was off the table. The Beverly Marsh rumors stuck right away every year - they were practically baked into the morning announcements. Gretta did weird shit like that, anyway. She’d pick the strongest of the litter and groom them to hate the same people she hated. She unleashed her minions to spread her good word: “kill or be killed by Gretta Keene”. It was almost unbearable until Bev and Sal became an item._

_They still played their parts and the bullying stayed the same, but it got kind of fun. Every instance of aggression - shoving into her on purpose or smacking things out of her hands - came back to her whenever they were alone. Beverly gave it back, pinning her lovely slim wrists above her head in the back of her absurdly nice car. It didn't surprise her that a perpetual second-in-command_ _like Sally Mueller liked it a little rough. It led to a month of performative bullying, brutal enough to cramp Gretta’s style. Beverly didn't complain about it, though. The guys worried about her, of course. As much as Beverly hated lying to them, she was already caught up in a hell of a lie and there was no going back. No one needed to know they were kissing and feeling each other up in the girls’ bathroom while Sally berated her. Hell, she even kicked the stall door every few minutes for effect. It was brilliant._

_Sure, she had to hide in the bushes after school and dive into Sally’s car like fucking Indian Jones, but it was worth it. Their dangerous game was worth it._

_That entire summer was worth it._

_They usually parked out in an abandoned field outside of town. No one went on that old road - there was nothing there but defunct farms and fields. It was silent out there, still, like time had stopped for them. Bev and Sal fooled around and talked for hours about how men were awful, how high school was awful, that Derry sucked, and what they wanted to do when they finally got out. Sometimes they’d sneak a six-pack of cheap beer and get a little tipsy. That was usually when Sally brought up her history with Gretta._

_“She hates you like it’s your fault that you had a shitty time growing up but, like..." She trailed off, lazily stroking Beverly’s hair. “You’re so fucking pretty and I kind of hated you like she did, you know?”_

_They sat facing each other in the back seat, their shared can of PBR sitting in a cup holder. Her car was so nice it had three or four cup holders and that was amazing to Beverly for some reason. “I know, princess.” She rolled her eyes. “Believe me.”_

_Sally scooted forward and circled her pale arms around Beverly's neck. “I was - I’m such a wimp, Bev.”_

_“It’s ok." She kissed Sally in earnest, loving how she moaned. It didn’t really matter what they did or how she touched her - Beverly could make a trembling mess of her if she wanted._

_“No, it’s...I like you a lot, okay? I think I was mad about that.” Beverly skated her fingertips up Sally's thighs, up to the hem of her miniskirt. It was the cute pleated one with a floral pattern, the one that flared out. She was wearing it the first time she straddled Beverly in the backseat. “It sucked because, like, Gretta was_ always _talking about you and I was basically constantly thinking about you?”_

_“Jesus, Sal,” she began kissing her neck._

_Sally’s voice caught in her throat. “I-I mean, she had to say shit to you every time we caught you out with those losers -”_

_Beverly flinched away from her. “They're my friends.”_

_Her eyes, ringed with baby blue and bright pink, seemed to glow in the dark. Sally was someone else that night - unbearably beautiful and promising, a siren in a mini skirt. There was an unabashed sincerity in her words and Beverly would never forget what she said. “You're too good for them, Bev.”_

Great news! Girls like me again. I don’t need you. I’m too good for you. _“They're good guys, they’ve never -”_

_“Remember when we were kids?” Beverly closed her mouth and nodded. “Don't you miss doing dumb girl shit?”_

_Beverly wanted to start crying. She had thought about what her life might have been like with girlfriends instead of groups of boys. But what would life be without the six boys she loved more than herself? Sally could have been that for her in some other fucking dimension, but not here. Not now. Never._

_“I miss it so much, Bev. The girls are always, like, talking about which guy they want to pop their cherry. I feel so weird because I don't even want to think about some guy sticking his dick in me." Her voice shook. “I always end up thinking about doing stuff with girls. And you.”_

_Sally Mueller was either an incredible actress or the most conflicted lesbian in existence._

_“I just…_ they _don't get that. I don't want you to go back to them and like, blow that weird kid who wears fanny packs -”_

_“He stopped wearing those two years ago, Sally.”_

_“Oh my god, you bitch,” Sally pouted. “I swear the fuck to god - if you ditch me for them, I'll never forgive you.”_

_Beverly took a long, nervous swallow of beer before passing the can to Sally. “Do I look like I'm about to dip out on you?”_

_"Bev, I lov-"_

_They were a mess of hands and moans and the possibility that they could be happy together in some bizarre plot twist. Beverly wanted to trust her. She wanted her to be the seventh person she loved unconditionally. But Sally didn’t like Beverly’s friends and Beverly would never fit in with hers._

_Accepting the limits of a relationship like theirs broke her heart._

_Sally started dating Todd or whatever his name was a month into junior year. Bev and Sal would pass one another in the hallway sometimes, but it wasn't the same. Sally would turn away from Beverly and start necking with her boyfriend whenever Gretta decided to throw a tube of Monistat at her or something. Beverly stopped caring. If Sally Mueller had just gone back to their old song and dance it could have been bearable. She would have taken the shoving, the name-calling, the rude graffiti - anything. But Beverly stopped existing._

_It felt like a curse. None of them could keep something up with an outsider, no matter how good or bad it was._

 

 

Beverly kicked back some of whatever Stan still had in his cup. They were still playing. She couldn't bring herself to care - her thoughts had exhausted her. So, she half-paid attention and drank randomly. Beverly was the only one who stuck her head under the nozzle of a Slurpee machine. _Sure I did, who gives a shit? Never will I ever get over my gorgeous childhood bully. This is fun._

“Bev, you ok?”

“I have to pee.”

“Want me to take you?” Stan’s voice sounded very normal to her - sober even though they both knew he wasn’t.

“Okay…”

He smiled and helped her up. “I'll keep you from the night animals, right Eddie?” The two of them began to giggle. She raised an eyebrow, and hopped onto Stan's back.

They were silent for a bit. It would have made sense to bring the flashlight, but neither of them were sober enough to plan ahead, apparently. But Stan seemed fine loping through the pitch dark woods. The lack of visibility didn't seem to bother him. Beverly hadn't seen him trip in years, anyway, and that was good enough for her. She rested her cheek on his shoulder and stared off into the dark rows of trees crawling past them.

“Sorry about earlier. Asking about...y’know. That wasn’t appropriate.” He said quietly. Beverly shook her head, nuzzling into his hair. He had very nice hair and she never really knew it because he was so damn tall. “I know how shitty it is for someone to bring that stuff up - I wasn’t fucking thinking.” Stan paused. “You just got really quiet so I...feel bad.”

She closed her eyes, feeling everything tilt. His hands were gripping under her knees and it reminded her that prom night was the most Stan had ever touched her. “It’s not your fault, I just needed to get it out.”

He crouched so she could slide off of him. “Well, go get out whatever else you need to.” She thwacked him and he grinned. “I’ll be here.”

Being a girl, Beverly had developed a specific technique to peeing in the woods. It was incredibly hard to pull off after two consecutive shots of mystery liquor but she did it. Beverly proudly, yet ineloquently, explained this to Stan when she met back up with him. She wanted to reassure him that she didn’t pee on herself just in case he had to carry her back, which was likely. He didn’t care, he found it hilarious.

Stan laughed. “Do you need a minute, Bev?”

She blinked at him, hoping it would realign her wobbly vision. “I think so.”

Stan Uris had a really cute smile. Anyone would agree that he was cute 98% of the time, no matter how upset or disheveled he was. He even made hangovers look good. _“Why the fuck is Stan so hot?”_

“I, uh, can’t answer that, but thanks.”

 _Oh fuck, I said that out loud._ “D-don’t mention it.” _Please. Don’t._

Beverly’s eyes shifted away from him. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Stan was kind of her big fuck-up with the group. She was never able to define who he was and how she really felt about him. There was a tentative emotional connection, and a whole lot of blushing, but wasn’t a proper relationship. He would most likely leave Derry soon after Ben. Stan knew exactly what he was going to do after high school since sophomore year, after all. If she was going to miss the window, she could at least man up and get as much closure as possible. _Deep breath_.

“This might sound weird, but I wanna ask you something,” she said.

“That doesn’t sound weird,” Stan said. His voice was calm, even.

She took a moment to piece the words together in the correct order. “Why didn’t we, like, ever really talk? Or hang out?”

Stan jolted like she’d just pinched his ass. “I...well,” he stared hard at the ground for a minute.

Her pace quickened. “I’ve always kind of felt like I never got to know you. It’s not your fault. And I don’t really blame myself for it, either, I just...don’t want to just…” She felt a very familiar, very unwelcome stinging feeling behind her nose. Beverly screwed her eyes shut. “You know when we all…goddamnit, I'm -” He was hugging her tightly against him before she could say another word. The fabric of his shirt was soft against her face. “I think I’ve got it, I don’t think I’ll start crying, it’s okay.”

He laughed in his chest. She felt it against her cheek. “I was kind of thinking about that - well, I have been. Lately.” There was a moment of hesitation before she tipped her head back to look up at him. “You know how I told you I felt weak?” He kissed her softly before she could answer. “I’ve been scared, too, Bev,” Stan kissed her forehead and her voice died in her throat. “I’ve been real scared of letting you see it.”

They shared a long look in the dark and she knew they were a few years too late. That night was the first time she realized that he had never shared any strong emotions with her. She felt things from him, but he never talked about it or seemed willing to admit it. He never even hinted at needing her until that night. It was hard for him, but Beverly was glad he finally showed her someone other than Calm and Collected Stanley Uris.

Her hands were carding through his hair before she could stop herself. “You still feel that way?” She asked, clumsily pressing their noses together. He shook his head. “Can I tell you I love you?”

His lips quirked at the corners. “I think I can survive that.”

Beverly kissed him quickly. He was still smiling a little. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“That felt good.”

“It did.”

“Even if we don’t really get much closer before we all split and stuff, I’m glad I’m friends with you.” His hair was soft between her fingers. “You’re kind and look after people and you laugh at weird shit like I do. You're good, Stan.”

He snorted. “Ditto.” A bashful grin tugged at her lips. “Hopefully we’ll meet good people, but -" He stopped at the loud, embarrassing noise Beverly made swallowing. The fond smile on his face could have killed her where she stood. “I mean, you’re the first girl I ever fell in love with. So...that won’t go away.”

She felt short of breath again. “Jesus, Stan…”

“What about him?”

“Shut up,” she giggled. “It’s weird, but...it’s really good to be in love with your best friends.”

Stan looked off to the side. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Man, I’m an idiot.” She couldn’t stop herself before kissing him again. “I think I get it now.”

He tipped Beverly’s chin up and kissed her hard. Her hand fluttered to the back of his neck, holding him still against her mouth. He grunted out a swear, grabbing hold of her ass and lifting her. Her legs locked around his waist. There was tree bark pressing into her back, stabbing in so many places, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Whatever had been there when they messed around before was so demanding that she could feel his want, his fear, everything that was just like hers. It was like a dam breaking open. _I want you so fucking badly_.

“I want you, Bev. Badly,” Stan breathed hot against her neck.

“I can tell.”

His canines flashed in a small grin, “I’m a little too drunk,” He nipped at her shoulder before setting her back down. “Little drunk…” Her hands found his hips beneath his shirt. Stan fucking _felt_ beautiful. _God, he's pretty, so pretty_ , she thought stupidly.

“S’okay. Still a good kisser -” his mouth cut her off.

“You’re one, too,” he mumbled. Their lips were almost touching and his hands were sliding up beneath her shirt. He was mimicking the way she was touching him. “Hey.” He did something between a hiccup and a swallow. “Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

His fingertips skimmed over her nipples through her flimsy bra and a quiet groan escaped her. “ _Yes_.”

Stan leaned over to kiss her cheek, now cupping her breasts - pushing them together. Her eyes started to cross on their own. “What do you and Richie do together?”

A nervous flush and a gasp were all she could manage. She thought about doing those things with Stan - with each of them - knowing full well it would destroy her. Her poor heart - crushed under her own anxiety and hormones like a cartoon anvil. “ _Fuck_ , dude.” He started kissing her neck again and she whined needily. His hand found her bra clasp between her shoulder blades and snapped it open. She remembered Richie's weeks of practice. By the time he could do it himself, she was almost too proud of him to be turned on. Stan was quiet about it, but he had always been a few steps ahead of Richie in a lot of ways. “We, uh...like we’re doing right now…kinda -” Stan hummed his interest, moving his lips straight down the line of her throat. His hands were on her breasts again. The skin on skin contact sapped whatever mental clarity she had left. “And...we, we - _ah!_ ”

“Too hard?” Beverly nodded and he pressed a gentle kiss over where he’d bitten her. “Keep talkin’. Curious.”

"Well, um, I -" She began stammering. _What, he fingers me and I give him hand jobs? There’s not much to -_

“Or, like, just show me.”

Her legs slammed shut like a bank vault. _What was the point in bringing underwear?_ She went back to whining. _I’m gonna die._

“Aha! That’s where you two got off - sorry, _ran_ off to.” It was Richie and he sounded very, very far away to her. Stan ignored him, licking deep into her mouth, continuing to draw pathetic moans out of her. “Wh- aw, _come on_ , Staniel.”

He finally let her go and she eased herself to the ground, feeling limp like he’d kissed the life out of her. “We were just talking about you,” he said.

Richie gawked at him. " _During?_ "

Without thinking, she tugged at Stan’s pant leg while he bantered with Richie. Beverly couldn't have cared less that Richie caught her latched onto Stan horny out of her mind. She was thinking that she could do this all day. She had always been too afraid to think about him this way for some reason. _I think I just answered my own question_. He moved to sit on the ground next to her, still talking, and she climbed into his lap, the way they were in the stairwell.

“Jesus, you guys, I was just gonna ask if you wanted some pretzels, but clearly you’re trying to BE one, so -”

Stan cut him off. “Shut your mouth and come here."

He did as he was told, squatting next to them. “Yes?” Beverly hazily watched Stan yank Richie forward by the front of his shirt. He wasn't still for long. “So, are you guys having sex with death or death with sex?” Stan shook his head. “Is Bevvie going to be okay? Looks like you've _drained her essence_."

She poked her head up and glared at him. “I’m fine," she managed. "I’m very good.” Stan hid his face against her shoulder, laughing.

Trashmouth waggled his eyebrows. “Told you you wanted to kiss Stan, didn’t I? I love being right -” His sentence broke against her rough kiss. “I r’ly do.” His lips were cold and his tongue tasted like straight rum. It was familiar - sitting in front of the fan in the summer, late nights in her room during winter.

Richie mumbled, “ _okay, okay, I give,_ ” and fit himself in with them. He kissed and fondled the both of them - one hand stroking through her hair, the other dodging up beneath Stan’s shirt. She wasn't with it enough to figure out how they made it work, but they did - whatever it was.

_What were the things we shared? Math notes...Iron Maiden tapes...t-shirts...Stan Uris…_

He seemed fine trapped between the two of them. The naked skin over his collar bones was driving her fucking nuts. Stan got to bite her, so it was only fair. His yelp was muffled against Richie's mouth. She slowly licked across Stan's exposed neckline, tasting sweat and smelling him, his clean scent now sappy and earthy. Beverly was going out of her mind for him, she wanted him closer. She was sinking further into his lap, splaying her knees out in the dirt, and she could feel him tight, tight against her. She felt him all the way up to her chest. It was almost too much.

_Don’t sleep with your friends._

Threesomes crossed her mind - a lot.

 _Don’t do that to them_.

“If I weren’t so wasted, I’d suggest a mena - …mirage…whatever. _Fucking_.”

 _Damnit_.

“ _Threesome_ ,” Richie sang. “Goddamn, Staniel, you are one horny bastard.”

“Fucking would be rad.”

“ _Bevvie_.”

“Look, my birthday’s next month. I’m just saying.”

“ _S_ _tan_.”

(“ _AAAAAAAAAAALL NIGHT!_ ”)

“Oh my god, I can hear Eddie from here.”

“Aw, Bill kept your mixtape, Bevvie!”

(“ _I HEARD THE NEWS, TODAY, OH BOYYY -_ ”)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a bisexual teen sucks! *throws confetti* Just me over here like...wishing I wasn't queerbaited in HS, it's fine, I'M FINE.
> 
> I'm hoping that the rapid Bev/Stan progression is making sense. I lean pretty hard on the foreshadowing (especially for him, it's a weakness, I'm sorry) and hooopefully the connection I'm going for is pretty clear.
> 
> I do want to say: the m|m might seem comparatively light in this fic BECAUSE I'm building up to like, actual relationships (COUGHStan/EddieCOUGHandbevfuckthepoliceCOUGH) and smut in the next installment. But, like...rest assured. When I say poly losers club, I mean it. idk why this became slow burn fest, I'm just going where it's taking me, man. There are also a bunch of random movie references in this chapter and that's a sign might be losing it.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it, y'all.
> 
> Mike is next. The best lad. Warmest fuzzies. Please wait warmly.


	11. Love is careless in its choosing [Mike]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening is winding down.  
> Wait, no it isn’t.  
> Bill and Mike have a positive sesh...VERY positive.  
> Go to bed, you dipshits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my humble apologies for the delay! I tend to freeze up with Mike bc he’s such a good dude and I always worry I’m not doing him justice! He puts up with an unreasonable amount of shit. This is also a weird but necessary bridge point. I’m probably going to come back to this like 3 days after I post it and go “AHHH I must rework this” (bad habit but I’m getting better about it.)
> 
> Anyway, Bill/Mike is underrated. It’s probably the most natural flowing Mike pairing which, uh, is obvs if you’ve read the novel. Good relationship. Very nice.

 

 

The night had finally caught up with them.

There was a short-lived game of “Sip, Sip, Shot” and then a blanket of fatigue settled over them. Bill’s watch read 1:35 am. Mike would have been off work half an hour ago. The thought alone had him falling asleep on Beverly’s lap. She looked ready to konk right out leaned against Bill’s leg herself. It was a wonder they didn't pass out hours ago.

All Mike could think about was the living hell that was prom. He stayed calm but the psychic pressure was worse than he anticipated. It took everything he had not to cry right along with Ben when they left the gymnasium together. He wanted to join Eddie in a mild panic attack, and maybe just sweep Beverly up into a bear hug for his own sake. _God, they’re all gonna be gone soon and I’m gonna bawl my eyes out._

Beverly’s hand found his. Mike felt her cheek against his knuckles. The past two years were a complete drain on him, but it all felt like a distant memory now. Mike was comfortable where he was for the first time in a long time. He had a lovely view of the sky from his position on the ground. The fire had burned down to embers so visibility was good. And he felt good - things were good.

_Aren’t they? Isn’t this it for us?_

“Tonight was fun, you guys, Beverly said. “Thanks.”

“We should be thanking _you_ , toots. Beth outdid herself.”

“You didn’t look so bad yourself, Trashmouth.”

“Aw shucks, purty lady.”

“You jerks clean up way too well, I was about to drop dead,” she sighed.

 _3...2...1._ Eddie and Ben made a weird bashful noise right on cue. For a couple of guys who wore tiny shorts on the regular, Ben and Eddie were surprisingly modest. They did the same grumbling stepping into their swim trunks at the beach, but the quarry was never an issue. They were usually the first ones out of their pants.

Beverly whipped a twig at them. “You looked hot and you still do. Deal with it, losers.” Stan and Bill cracked up.

"I cleaned up, but am I also hot?" Richie mused.

"Oh, yeah. My loins are all a-quiver for you, swear to god." Beverly laid the sarcasm on thick but Richie chuckled, pleased with himself.

“Feels totally weird to say it, but I'm...glad I went to prom,” Eddie said. There was a lighthearted drunken lilt in his voice.

Everyone had sobered up at least once by then and Mike's inner big brother was starting to freak out. _He’s been drunk for almost 5 hours, there’s no way he’s getting out of this without a hangover. God, and his mom’s probably gone nuclear by now._ He sighed. _Fuck it. I'm glad he's having fun._

Stan laughed dryly. “Kinda fucked up, isn’t it?”

“Not a t-t-total bust.”

Richie shot up, nearly headbutting Stan. “Whoa, whoa, time out a sec! This is all wrong.”

“What’s wrong, Richie?” Ben was stretched out on his back with Eddie happily lazing across his chest. It looked like everything was perfectly right for him.

Eddie's tough little shell of repression had crumbled and it was no surprise that Ben was the one who did it. They had been through a lot together, going from friends to teammates to whatever this was. Mike was part of “The Jock Squad” as Stanley put it, so he knew there was something more than mutual admiration going on right away. But it made sense. In Bill’s absence, Ben kind of became _that_ person for Eddie - someone he looked up to and, in some ways, fell in love with. The difference was Ben wasn’t oblivious.

“In case you haven’t noticed, _Ben_ , we're at the quarry and we're not swimming.”

“But I’m fine here - I’m settled,” Eddie groaned. Richie blew a raspberry at him.

“Alright, I’ll go with,” Beverly sighed.

The second Bev was in, the others were scrambling to their feet - comfort be damned. Mike took a seat on the log bench next to Bill. Everyone was undressing and it felt like a teen movie. Nothing about that day felt real to begin with so it may as well have been _Pretty In Pink_ on steroids. _Except Beverly didn’t show up to prom wearing an abomination._

Beverly lifted her crop top over her head. “You coming?” Bill stared at the ground while he shook his head no. “Mike?”

 _Holy crap, that is one unsubstantial bra_. “Uh...” To be fair, Stan’s briefs clung to his ass so tight that it looked like someone painted them on. A bunch of half-naked losers wasn’t a huge deal under normal circumstances. Then again, Mike couldn't remember what made a circumstance normal. “I’m good, Bev.” There were too many things to look away from so he just kept circulating and it was hell. Mike wondered how far he’d have to run to get out of the hormonal blast radius.

Richie cried, “Eds! Hand me that rum!” He did, but not without a perturbed little glare at the hated (loved) nickname. “COURAGE SHOT!” He took a swig right out of the bottle, gagging a bit before squirming out of his shirt.

Beverly’s hands were on her hips, “while we’re young, Tozier, let’s go.” His boxers almost flew off with his pants in his messy rush to undress. “Race ya, nerd.”

"Seeya, dingus!" He was sprinting for the edge before she could manage a comeback. The others could only shake their heads. _It’s the end of high school and they’ve gone full Thelma and Louise_.

Beverly and Richie hurled themselves off the cliff together.

It wasn't that big of a deal - they'd done it dozens of times. But when they disappeared into the dark, it was like someone flipped the breakers. _Something_ was on again.

Mike watched Eddie shifting his gaze between Ben and Stan. His expression said, _“I know what’s up and I don’t know how to feel about it.”_ The other two didn’t notice him.

“L-l-look out for turtles.”

Ben snorted. “No harm will come to the turtles. Scout’s honor, Stan?” Stanley muttered a _"sure, yeah"_ , obviously preoccupied. Ben gave Bill a satisfied nod, then dropped his pants and took a running leap after Richie and Bev.

Eddie seemed hesitant. He stood close to the edge in his boxers, staring down into the dark. Judging by the stiff line of his shoulders and the way he rubbed at the back of his neck, it wasn’t because of the drop. He was considering their harmless nighttime swim _very_ carefully.

“Everyone else is doing it.” Mike added. The sound of Beverly and Richie caterwauling down in the lake rung up to the campfire. "See? They're fine."

“C'mon, dude, you got this!!” Bill whooped. “Jump off a cliff!”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I feel so supported now, thank you.”

Stan placed a hand on top of Eddie's head and ruffled his dark hair. “You'd better jump before I toss you.”

“I _hope_ you fuckin’ do, Uris, I will _erase_ you.”

“I’ll go first, then," he said with a teasing smirk. “See you on the other side.”

With that, the fourth was gone.

“Spectacular long juh-juh-jump out of Mr. Uris. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Hanlon?”

Mike held up an imaginary score card. “Solid 9. Think you can top it, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

There was a calculating look on Eddie’s face when he looked back at them. He was a solid B student, unassuming and quiet around other people, yet far more intelligent and observant than he let on. Years of placating his mother and taking the path of least resistance made him that way. Eddie acted for other people - how he believed he should - so very few people ever got to know him. He had been _"the sick kid"_ his entire life, and that was usually where folks stopped with him. Mike thought back to his near slip-up about Eddie’s Factitious asthma earlier that evening. He wondered if anything had resurfaced for Eddie since then.

One of his knees buckled under him and he swayed in place. He may have been giving them a drunk look. “I think I might be...can…I can.”

“Don’t forget to limber up,” Bill gestured toward him with his beer bottle. Eddie snorted. “I’m proud of you, Eddie.”

“What?”

 _Good lord, Bill’s toasted_. “I didn’t come to all of your track meets, but I’m proud of you.”

His eyes almost bugged out of his head. “Thanks, Big Bill.” His hero worship for Bill had never died out, and Mike was glad to see it. The corner of Eddie's mouth twitched a little, then he turned to shout down into the quarry lake. “Move the fuck out of the way so I don’t kill any’a you fuckers!” He scratched his head. “Or you, Bevvie!” Mike and Bill looked at each other, stifling laughter. Eddie Kaspbrak kicked up a little trail of dust bolting for the edge. He hit the water with a distant splash before it could settle.

They sat in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder on the log bench. They sipped cheap beer and listened to the faint echoes of their friends below. The fire was silent as well, now a smoldering pile of embers.

“Sure you don’t wanna go with ‘em?”

Bill shook his head, rolling the neck of his beer bottle back and forth between his hands. “Don’t have the eh-eh-energy for it, I’m afraid.” After a moment, he sighed and leaned forward to stoke the fire.

“We sound like old men.” Bill snorted at that. “I’m so tired but my brain is like...” Mike did a loony gesture.

“Me, too. Long night,” Bill said.

Neither of them wanted to talk about it, he could tell. Prom was a stressful but welcome distraction. If Mike’s assumption was correct, Bill was feeling more from the others than he had in years. He dealt with the same thing during their beach trip - social during the day, passed out by 11:30 almost every night. Mike had with his share of reacclimation periods, but that night was so charged that their closeness felt more like a stress response. It reminded him of life and death. And when they were kids. Kids emotionally and physically clinging to each other because they _would_ be dead if they didn’t.

It seemed to serve a different purpose for the others now. Mike understood why, and he definitely understood how their connection was developing. But he was an outsider in that respect as well - at that point in his life, anyway. _I think_.

“It’s been real quiet down there,” Mike muttered suggestively.

“W-w-what’re you getting at, Mike?”

Instead of saying _“they’re fooling around”_ , he raised both eyebrows. Bill leaned away from him, _his_ eyebrows dropping into a serious, straight line. “I will bet you money, Bill,” Mike said.

“Are you k-kidding?” Bill hissed.

Mike grinned. “What, you think they’re swimming laps?”

“No,” He screwed his face up. “That’s not a…”

“Ten bucks.”

“Mike...”

“Bet ya ten bucks they come back really, really tired, climb right onto the sleeping bags and pass out. Don’t act like you didn’t see it.”

Bill pursed his lips, considering it for a moment. “I mean, you’re r-ruh-right, but…”

Mike snorted, bumping his shoulder against Bill’s. His stutter loved to come back whenever he got embarrassed. “Hey, I guess the whole thing went well for them.”

“We’re a weird group of p-people, dude.” He looked pensive, staring out across the weak campfire. “Weirder to think about not being a g-g-guh...a group anymore.” Leave it to Bill to sober him up with a single sentence. “You sure you wanna do this, Mike?”

“Man…” The conversation turned far quicker than he liked. “I don't _want_ to, Bill.” Staying behind was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, Mike couldn't bring himself to say, _“I have to.”_

Bill nodded, now watching the dying fire. “Wuh-wuh-what do you wanna do?”

Could-haves and should-haves were all he was able to come up with. He didn't think about himself very much. Mike Hanlon preferred to think about other people, listen to them, read them - it was easier that way. Whenever Mike thought about who he was and what he wanted, memories of his family came with it. If he had been angry enough, he'd say “I want to have my parents back, Bill, what the fuck else?!” But it was an honest question, one worth thinking on more than he did.

Bill curled his arm around Mike's broad shoulders, hugging him to his side. “Is it cool if I make a suggestion?”

“What are you, a career counselor?”

He hummed and smiled - drunk, but still mature and reassuring. “You'd make a really good teacher.”

Mike had a brief vision of being set upon by a platoon of five-year olds - loud, boundary issues, grabbing with their sticky hands, smelling like apple juice, probably. _Eighteen tiny Richies, oh, dear god._ The thought of high schoolers was even more unsettling. “Bill, that might be the worst idea I've ever heard come out of your mouth.”

“I’m just p-picturing you like Kindergarten Cop -”

“You're drunk if you think I'm up for that crazy shit.”

“I'm pretty drunk, yes," he said, leaning into Mike. The weight felt nice. “Librarian, then. Not as many kids around. Don't tell me you h-ha-aven't thought about it.”

“Mike _“More Books Than Friends”_ Hanlon? No way.” God, he loved Bill's laugh. “Do I even look like a librarian to you?”

Bill sat up and regarded Mike with a look of mock-appraisal. “Let’s see.” He swung a leg over the log bench to face him.

“I wasn’t serious.”

“I am,” Bill futzed with Mike’s hair for a moment. “This is fine hair for a librarian.” He scooted up closer and Mike tensed up. Neither of them were boundary-challenged and usually kept a respectable distance so this was new. He wasn’t sure Bill had ever been that physically close to him on purpose. “You d-don’t need reading glasses yet, right?” Mike shook his head. _Am I nervous?_ “You’d look good in reading glasses.”

“...Bill, are you flirting with me?”

“I m-m-muh-muh-might be.” The way he ducked his head a little while he stuttered was endearing. Mike hadn’t seen him do it in years and he felt a little guilty for thinking it was cute. _Shit, what is going on?_ His hand was on Mike’s cheek. “If that’s okay.”

He felt tingly, and short of breath - sensations he usually associated with passing out after a full afternoon of football drills. If memory served him correctly (when did it ever), the same feeling came up when they were in the public library once. He was helping Bill find sources for a history paper one afternoon in October. It was so trite, but Mike couldn't get it out of his head. Bill couldn’t reach a book on the top shelf. Mike was just tall enough to grab it for him. And then, whaddya know, he accidentally pinned him against the shelf. _Cue laugh track._ He didn’t move and they were inches apart, almost like he was waiting for a reaction. Since Mike was the smoothest person in the tri-county area, he _reacted_ by softly bonking _The Fire Next Time_ against Bill’s forehead. That was an awkward day altogether. _I’m drawing some parallels here. Cool._

“Bill, you're drunk. I don't want you to do something you'll regre-”

Bill hadn't given regret a second thought, apparently. Some folks would think that a person with a stutter had a clumsy mouth in all situations. That was absurd and definitely not the case - definitely not with Bill. His hands skimmed over Mike's chest and up to the sides of his face to pull him down harder against his lips. Bill sat back, pulling away with a quiet smack, once again searching for a reaction. There was a cute, drunken blush on his cheeks and some latent arousal spiked between them. Bill Denbrough had a certain magnetism about him and Mike was convinced that it started with eye contact. One look and he locked you in.

They leaned in and Mike caught his mouth, messier than he intended, but Bill pushed back. God knew how many different types of alcohol he’d had that night. Bill flicked his tongue against Mike's between hard, heated kisses. The last time Mike actually made out with someone was passive on his end. He figured it was best to let the other do whatever they had to do and be flattered by the attention. But it was almost impossible not to fall in love with Bill. He also happened to fit very nicely in Mike's lap.

“How long you th-think they'll be gone?”

Mike kissed a line down from his jaw. “Why?”

“I'm t-t-two seconds away from fuh-fuh-hucking tearing your clothes off -” he growled. Mike had grabbed his ass hard enough to shove their hips together. A chaperone would have jimmied them apart for that one. “D-do that again.”

The urge to make Bill stutter harder than he has in his life was battling it out with Mike’s pattern behavior of sitting things out. He didn't usually get hot and bothered like the others. In fact, his sexual attraction toward Bill was making him doubt his condition of _“thanks, but no thanks”_. Was it a condition or something he told himself over and over again until he believed it? It didn't matter. Bill's legs were around his waist and his hands were clutching at Mike's hoodie like his life depended on it. All this from a man who laughed at couples necking in the hallway.

“Bill, we need to stop,” Mike said thickly. “We should -”

Bill's lust-drunk face made him want to take it back. His cheeks were a deeper red and his eyes deep, dark - gorgeous. "Jesus, dude, you w-want me to go jack off in the w-w-w-”

“No, I just,” Bill silenced him briefly. “I just want to do this...” Mike stopped to bite at his lip. “Not here.”

“You're ruh-ruh-ruh-rainchecking me, huh?”

“Is that bad?”

“Kinda.”

 _“Will someone help our Bevvie up this damn hill? Not you, Staniel, you've_ helped _enough!”_

_“Too bad, asswipe.”_

“Looks like we don't have a choice,” Mike grumbled. Bill Denbrough clicked his tongue and _dismounted_ Mike Hanlon. “Sorry.”

There was fire in his calm blue eyes. It made Mike shiver just a little. “Make it up to me l-l-later.”

“Deal,” he breathed.

It must have been a long time coming. After the sewers, after Bill forgot why he went after IT in the first place, his anger turned to weariness. IT wasn’t dead and they both knew it - but the job was done. Mike and Bill watched the others heal and leave that summer behind them. It didn't work out for everyone, of course. Mike knew that whatever was out there pulling the strings would not show him the same mercy, nor would it Bill.

“Hey, dads, swap any good fishin’ stories while we were out?” Richie strolled back into the firelight, half-dry in his underwear. Ben and Eddie followed, both in a similar state of dress.

Mike regarded Bill with a look that said, _“you owe me ten bucks”._ He looked back with, _“yeah, and you owe me one hell of a sleepover”._

“Have fun swimming laps down there?” Mike winked at Richie, who squinted at him, daring him to elaborate.

“Jesus, you guys. Give a huh-hoot, don’t pollute.” Mike had to cover his mouth to contain his sputtering laughter. Eddie and Ben exchanged guilty looks, but kept quiet. They began gathering their clothes like they were the tattered remains of a flag. _Did someone die?_

“YOWZA! Big Bill gets off yet another good one,” Richie yelped.

“Sounds like you already did.”

_“Michael!”_

Eddie shuffled over to sit next to Bill. To be more accurate: he threw himself down like an old, tired dog.

Stan finally caught up, carrying a drowsy Beverly on his back. She had a dreamy smile on her face. _I've never seen those two this comfortable_. Her bra band was twisted up in the back like someone who had never worn one in their life tried to do the hooks. “We're going to bed,” Stan mumbled, walking right past the campfire to Bill's car.

Beverly waved at Bill and Mike. “G’night.”

Ben rolled his eyes and gathered their clothes as well. “I’ll be right back.” Clearly the idea of Stan and Beverly cuddling up in their skivvies wasn’t agreeing with him.

“That reminds me - I'm about to crash,” said Richie. He was staring after the others like a wolf in pursuit. “Alas, I must also retire for the evening, chaps.” Mike doubted he was ready to crash if he still had a Voice or two left in him. He snatched his shirt up off the ground and half-stumbled off into the dark. “See you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the ‘morrow or whatever.”

Bill leaned over to Eddie. “You okay?”

The look on his face said _“I have no idea”_ , but he replied quite calmly. “Yes. Absolutely. I am fine.”

“Okay,” he chuckled. “Just checking. You look like you’re having war flashbacks.”

Eddie laughed nervously. “Yeah.” He finished dressing. “Apocalypse Later, Sleep Now. See you, guys.”

“Drink some water, Eds.”

“Right, yeah.”

_We’re a weird group of people._

 

 

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they are fucking around down there, and yes I’ve written it and it is A LOT. It’s the first part of the smut-ridden continuation of this.
> 
> Eddie is next. Things are going to go off in the quietest way possible bc people are trying to sleep.
> 
> There IS an end in sight. We're almost there, y'all.
> 
>  
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention that I beta. I beta. There it is.  
> bearsquares.tumblr.com


	12. Love is careless in its choosing [Eddie]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I brought up how cute it is that Eddie is a terrified burrito and my partner called him a “boyrrito”. It took 5 years off my life. Anyway, here we are.
> 
> This chapter is short. Just like Eddie.
> 
> Oh and there are some gross parts toward the end. jic you hate reading abt throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're floating down a tunnel  
> In a little wooden box  
> You're cold and you’re lonely and enveloped in fog  
> You've been pried open and left here to die  
> You should have trusted your instincts  
> 'cause they don't tell lies
> 
> “Soul Mining”, The The

 

 

“Overwhelmed” didn’t even begin to describe how Eddie felt lying in the back of Bill’s car. That night - possibly his entire life - had just culminated in the span of 30 minutes and his senses were shot. _I’m ruined. I’m destroyed. Oh god, I’m so tired. I just want to feel normal again_. Even though he was burritoed up in his sleeping bag, weary and listless, his eyes wouldn’t stay shut. He couldn’t even blame it on the occasional sigh or moan from the pile of blankets further back in the trunk - though he made a point of curling up as far away from that pile of blankets as humanly possible - his body was simply refusing to calm down and go the fuck to sleep.

The longer he stayed awake, the more he sobered up, and the more he sobered up, the more attention he paid to the conversation around the campfire. It seemed like Ben, Bill, and Mike were killing time waiting for everyone else to fall asleep. They spoke in hushed tones, pausing to laugh quietly or poke at the dimming fire. It sounded normal enough, but he could feel some undercurrent from where they sat. It felt like he was sitting in front of an oscillating fan. Something felt off but Eddie couldn’t separate it from his thousands of other “off” feelings.

“Hold up, lemme move this log -”

_Squeak squeak_

_Thud_

“Are you sure you’re ready to talk about this?” Bill asked.

There was a lazy smile in Ben's voice. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Eddie checked his watch. Whatever they had to discuss was clearly important enough to warrant fighting sleep after 10 straight hours of whatever the hell just happened. He was merely curious at first, hoping their voices would distract him from how awful he felt, but his curiosity soon turned to anxiety. They were somewhere between “amnesia” and “missing kids” when he started to panic.

“I still think about the day in the library,” Ben murmured.

“The day w-w-w-...the day we met.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I saw one of those fucking creepy balloons.”

Eddie's gut tensed up so hard it almost folded in on itself. There had always been a sound stuck in the back of Eddie's mind, and he used to think it was firecrackers or twisting bubble wrap, but he knew that was wrong. It could have been balloons - a swarm of red balloons - all at once, loud as gunshots.

“Bill and I talked through what we remember...y’know, as much as we could," Mike said. "I mean, I remember how jumpy you used to get in the library.”

“ _Real_ jumpy, man. It, uh, led me down there. It knew I was alone.” Bill and Mike were quiet: patient, shocked, or both. _What? What led him down where?_ Eddie was almost losing his mind at how calm Ben sounded. _How the fuck is he so unshakable?_ “One second it was the headless kid, the next it was Pennywise -”

 _Oh my god_. “Oh my god.”

 _I’m gonna be sick. Oh god._ “I’m gonna b-b-be s-sih-sick.”

Mike’s voice was muffled. “I can’t...I forgot it’s fucking name.”

“Th-that’s only the c-c-c-clown. That’s not ih-it’s ruh-ruh-real name - just the clown - n-not the real thing.” Words tumbled out of Bill’s mouth. Eddie felt a violent urge to run. He wanted to run into the woods and hurl his guts out but he managed to clap a hand over his mouth and swallow back whatever was trying to come up. _Why did I leave my antacids in the car? I’m such an idiot!_ Bill was freaked out and that was somehow more frightening than remembering how he broke his arm.

“I remember yours. What you saw. Everyone's, actually.” _Please don’t say it, please don’t say it_. “I can’t think of any gaps.”

“Jesus, Ben...” Mike breathed.

They were quiet for a moment. The distant chirps of frogs echoed up from the edge of the quarry lake. _Spring peepers are peeping; we’re not dead. We wouldn’t be hearing it if we weren’t. We didn’t go missing_.

Bill sighed heavily. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

“You sure, Big Bill?”

“P-please.”

Everything they described was an assault on Eddie's most basic sense of reality. As they spoke, every gory detail came creeping back out of wherever he’d trapped them years ago. He realized there was more, there had always been more, and it was horrifying. If acting on his repressed sex drive was threatening to break him, he wasn't going to survive reliving the most traumatizing summer of his life. Strong-willed as they were, he had no idea how Mike, Bill, and Ben lived with those memories. Bill had the stamina of a 70-year-old and slept 13 hours a day for fuck’s sake. They kept quiet for years, lying awake playing things over in their heads night after night. They lied to the rest of them. They _lied_. Eddie couldn’t decide if he was grateful or pissed off. Still, he didn’t think to plug his ears and shut everything out. In spite of his growing alarm, he was experiencing an addictive mental clarity. It felt like he was finally _"getting it"_. He understood why things changed the way they did. He understood why they were friends and why he always wanted to be with them. He understood why things were so bad when they split up.

_I could have taken it, right?_

“Henry Bowers tried to kill you,” Ben said.

“And I pushed him into the well.” Mike finished solemnly. “I thought I really killed him until he washed out.”

Watching their psychotic childhood bully plummet down a well didn’t phase Eddie at the time. It felt a little cruel to admit, but he hated him. He distinctly remembered the sound of Henry’s bones breaking and thinking, _good_. He thought that horrible thought sitting in a dank, slimy tunnel - sitting, waiting with everyone. He remembered Stan was the farthest back. Henry went, Eddie turned to look over his shoulder, then Stan was gone.

Eddie threw a quick look over his shoulder at where Stan was sleeping. The blankets were still.

“You didn’t, though. And you were defending yourself,” Bill said firmly. His voice dropped to a low tone. “You and Bev.”

“What the fuck,” Eddie whispered.

Beverly and Mike were the least violent people Eddie knew, and now he understood why. That summer pushed everyone to desperation, so far that they nearly lost their minds. The things they had to endure would have broken any adult - hell, it would break them now. They were adults. They were weak. _Maybe that’s why adults lied to us so much._ _Maybe_ , Eddie thought, _that’s why I kept believing them._ Eddie Kaspbrak yelled at his mom exactly once in his life. He got rid of his medicine that day.

It almost happened again sophomore year. Eddie had a major asthma attack one afternoon. A couple of seniors kicked him around and, even though he was a tough kid, it was enough to close his throat up like a bank vault. Then the bell rang. He made it to his locker and started heaving in vapor. The hiss of his inhaler bounced off the painted grey steel - _kss...kss...kss_ \- and seemed to echo down the entire hallway. When he finally stepped back from his locker, he realized his little detour wasn't as discreet as he'd hoped. Gretta Keene was staring at him from a few lockers down. (He looked a living cliche when he turned around to make sure she was actually looking at him.) They made eye contact. She looked annoyed, like he'd just complimented her GUESS jacket (it was Donna Karan) but he knew it was the inhaler. The disgusted snarl on her bubblegum pink lips, the eye roll - it was the goddamn inhaler. He couldn't explain why, he didn't know why she was so pissed, but he wanted to throw it away that afternoon.

Eddie realized that his guilty crush on Gretta didn't happen by accident. She was mean as hell, but she did him a favor. Gretta Keene thought he was a complete worm, but she knew adults lied to their kids and she wasn't afraid to say it. _Help doesn't always come from nice people, does it?_

Ben continued, dragging Eddie back out of his thoughts. “We were together, Bill. Every time we split up, it went for us. I think that’s why Stan’s...you know.”

He was back in the tunnel again. Henry's body hurtled past. Eddie looked back over his shoulder. Stan was gone. He didn't run off to find Beverly by himself - he'd never do something so uncharacteristically stupid. They almost got stuck scrabbling through the tunnel. Bill and Richie shoved them forward, almost sending them face first into the shitty water. The second Ben helped Eddie down, they heard Stan Uris scream. Eddie had never heard anything like it in his life. _Those scars. His face - it bit him. IT bit him._

“I hoped that wasn’t why he started losing it," Ben said. "Anything but that, y'know? But every time I sat with him outside of class it felt like we were down there again.”

“I barely remember that,” Bill whispered.

“You kept going, Bill.”

 _Stan hadn’t cried since the fourth grade, I couldn’t fucking leave him - he needed us and Bill ran off_.

Ben hesitated, then spoke. “We found his jacket down there. Before we got out.”

“Whose jacket?” Bill said sharply. Mike and Ben didn't reply. Bill’s brother went missing when they were all 12 - everyone knew that. They never figured out what happened and Bill eventually came to terms with it. _Georgie_. “Georgie...oh, god.”

_Ripped his arm clean off. He’d forgotten, too. All this time._

Ben’s voice shook. “I’m sorry, Bill. I shouldn't have...”

 _Silence_.

Eddie wanted to run to Bill’s side more than anything. He had no idea what he’d do or say but he was at his poor brother's funeral, and he saw what it did to him. Eddie remembered staring at the empty coffin in the empty plot. He was too young to cry - too young register that Bill didn't believe Georgie was actually dead.

Bill forgot they figured it out. Bill forgot mourning his brother.

“No, it’s okay,” he finally whispered. “I...thanks, Ben. We should call it a night.”

“Good idea,” Mike said softly. “I’ll put this out.”

Ben didn’t say anything.

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that he'd sleep like shit - if he slept at all.

 

 

Some time passed. Eddie peeked over the top of his sleeping bag. The fire was out. Pitch darkness had claimed their campsite and brought with it a heavy, unsettling silence. There were no chirping animals or buzzing insects, no wind rustling the treetops. It was dead silent. He held still for what felt like an hour, staring out into the dark like he was waiting for something.

_Plip_

_Plip plip_

“I shouldn’t be hearing this.”

_Plip_

He knew the sound well. He also knew that it didn’t belong on top of a cliff 30-odd feet away from a still lake.

Eddie’s insides knotted up and he knew he couldn’t hold it back anymore. He slid out of his sleeping bag as quietly as possible, stumbled a short way into the woods, and vomited behind a tree.

_Plip_

_At least you’re not dead_.

Bile rose in his throat.

_At least your arm wasn’t ripped off._

A fresh heave splattered in the dirt.

_Plip plip_

Another sound joined in as a faint echo. Eddie couldn’t hear it above his dry heaving. He leaned against the tree, randomly wondering if he was getting sap all over his shirt. His diaphragm contracted again but nothing came of it.

He heard it this time - a mucusy, guttural voice, gurgling off somewhere in the woods.

He should have run back to the car.

There was a smell. Not puke. Worse than puke - so much worse. He doubled over again. A rotting smell. Not like roadkill cooking and filling with gas in the sun. A wet smell. A _stench_. A deep, dark, wet stench. Weeks old. Water-logged. In the dark.

_Plip_

He heard the voice again. He smelled the pungent, filthy water.

_...dd...ie..._

“I shouldn’t be hearing this.”

_...e...d...iiiee..._

The smell was stronger, closer. He fought back another painful gag and realized he was shaking. He was trying not to breathe it in, suffocating in the smell of decay.

_Plip plip plip_

_...eeeddiiieeee..._

Sickly, sweet decay.

“No…”

_EDDIE!_

 

 

A sinking feeling tipped him out of a light, fitful sleep. Eddie didn't know where he was at first. He took a few minutes to reorient himself. _Sleeping bag. Bill's car. Surprisingly not hungover._ He scrubbed at his eyes in disgust - it felt like they had been cemented shut. His mouth tasted sour. _Oh my god, this is nasty_. He sat up. A river-y smell wafted out of his sleeping bag and it made him want to light himself on fire. This may have been the grossest he had ever felt, short of getting projectile puked on by a monster. Eddie began trembling. _That happened. I remember now. Oh, god. Oh, god._ Panic set in as the things he overheard last night flooded his conscious mind. _Ben and Mike and Bill - they knew - I remember now_. He had to distract himself, think of anything else - anything.

He peered out the window, wide-eyed and taking even, calming breaths through his nose. The pink flush of sunrise reminded him that good things existed, calm things existed. The tallest trees were still, bathed in a warm, rosy light. Eddie closed his eyes. The forest was quiet save for the chorus of Eastern Phoebes (or Robins) ringing through the trees. _This is_ reality _,_ he thought. _This is natural._

"You're up early.”

Eddie, startled, turned to the open end of the trunk. Mike was sitting on the Buick's tailgate, backlit by the soft light of dawn. _Have you accepted Mike Hanlon as your personal savior?_ “Mornin’, Eddie.”

“You look immaculate.”

“Thanks, man,” he chuckled. “How ya feelin’?”

“Gross.” Eddie sat up and carefully wriggled out of his sleeping bag. “Do you see my shoes anywhere?”

“Set 'em right here.”

Everyone’s shoes were lined up next to him like dirty birds on a power line. He envied Mike in a way. Eddie felt other people, but he didn't necessarily know what to do with those feelings. Mike _knew_ people, he could _do_ something - if he was an outsider, that must have made Eddie a fuckin' ballerina. It was a silly thing, but looking at the shoes made him realize how much Mike had taken care of him over the years. He remembered seeking him out the night before. Ten minutes was all it took, ten minutes to free him from anxiety, even if it was just for a bit. _Being stuck in Derry won't be all bad_ , Eddie thought. _I just might survive_.

He scooted up to join Mike at the edge of the trunk, then began tugging his socks and sneakers on. He glanced back into Bill's car - Richie, Stan, and Bev were where he'd left them - in a pile. Ben was still stretched across the back seat while Bill snoozed away in the front seat. Eddie assumed Mike had taken the driver's seat - they probably looked like comatose Top Gun or something. Eddie chuckled to himself.

“I was worried about you this morning,” Mike said, his tone unusually serious. Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You were up at four barfing on a tree.”

“I was?” _Great. Guess I’m not sleeping tonight._

Mike watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Glad you’re better.” Eddie returned to fiddling with his shoelaces. “Oh - dental hygiene courtesy of Wentworth,” Mike nodded toward a bag in the corner of the trunk. “Water bottles are still in the cooler.”

“Oh god, bluh - can you hand me that?” _Thank god for Went_. Everyone had a soft spot for Richie's dad. He definitely got up to all kinds of shit when he was younger - why else would he cover for them so often? They only got into trouble a few times, though. Most of the parents learned to accept their kids' spontaneous overnighters and odd behavior. Eddie's mom was the outlier, of course. The thought of going home to her - now a blubbering mess for sure - almost sent him running back into the woods to puke up his remaining internal organs. _I don't feel as bad about lying anymore, at least_. “Jesus, I'm a fucking mess.” Eddie shoved a toothbrush into his mouth.

“Nah. You'll feel better in a minute," Mike said. "Surprised you don't look worse after how hard you went last night.” Eddie shrugged his shoulders. “Think you can eat?”

He whipped around to look at Mike. There was a ravenous glint in his eyes and they all knew it well. “Hashbrowns?” He said it around his toothbrush and Mike laughed weakly, trying not to wake the others. Eddie spat his toothpaste into the fire pit. “Will you drive?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, god -" He wiped his mouth on his arm. "Can we get pancakes?”

“Put your other shoe on.”

“Answer the question, Mike Hanlon.”

“Put your other shoe on,” he repeated, still trying not to laugh. Eddie scuffed his shoe roughly against the ground to slip it on, then threw his hands out expectantly. “Yes.”

Eddie was off; hoofing it up the path to his car.

 

\--

  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best to avoid making this a re-cap so I hope that wooooorrrrked? There’s actually a reason for all of this and it's going to flow into the follow-up. I've been working on that one on and off and here's the thing: it was originally going to be some fairly disjointed porn BUT it's starting to develop some actual joints. This keeps happening. I’m so sorry. Anyway, we’re almost done. I love writing this group, though, so I’m definitely continuing with this AU plotline. Thanks again for your input/support!
> 
> We're actually finishing with Richie. I did this deliberately. Worry not.
> 
> \---
> 
> Main: bearsquares.tumblr.com (p. regular IT posts, lots of goofs, stuff I think is cool - just...one big clusterfuck.)  
> Art: chilidogpaella.tumblr.com


	13. Love is careless in its choosing [Richie]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, my dudes.
> 
>  
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote almost half of this after toiling in a field all day and passing out at 8 pm. I don't think I'm capable of writing Richie while I'm 100% clear-headed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the lot, the boy that's idling by doesn't rev your heart  
> 'Cause it's only lonely spots he shares with you  
> And the long halls and the gray walls are gonna split apart  
> Believe it or not there's life after high school
> 
> \- Hall & Oates, "Adult Education"

 

 

One drawback of being Richie Tozier was an inability to fall back asleep - once he was up, he was up, and that morning was a real shitty time to be up. A gallon of water and six more hours of sleep would have been ideal, but that was a luxury his stupid body wouldn't allow. How the fuck, he thought, would he even manage to snag a water bottle when he was crammed between Stan's back and the fucking wheel well? Richie squirmed grumpily, still kind of drunk and feeling a little like he’d just rolled down Up Mile Hill in a trash can. An expected wave of nausea crashed over him. To stave off what would be a spectacular ralph all over his sleeping friend (likely to earn him a three-month-long silent treatment), Richie began sorting through his fuzzy memories of the night before.

 _I jumped off a cliff, did some very naughty things down in the quarry, came back up, did more naughty things because Stan is a pervert and I have lost control of my life, and now I'm being crushed. Neat_.

Stan’s sandbaggy, immovable body was a problem. The sun had already begun to blare through the car windows and Richie was in the perfect spot for a little ray of sunshine to zip in and hit him in the eye like a stray bullet. He was being punished for his sins, as his devoutly Catholic mother would put it. He may have deserved it, but he wasn’t sure if he could pull off three acts of contrition, two rosaries, and one apology card before suffocating to death. He reached stiffly around Stan’s waist. _Careful...careful..._ Tickling Stan was suicide, but spending the next few hours sardined in a car full of sleeping people was ludicrous. His hand slipped past Stan and came to rest on Beverly's hip instead. Richie entertained the idea of asking her what parts of a girl she liked most. He needed to spend more time in academic pursuits. In spite of his limited range of motion, he couldn't resist skimming his fingers over the lacy waistband of her panties. He felt a little swell of love for the two people now flattening him. _"Love"_ left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but Richie didn't know what else to call it. _It doesn't matter now because I'm going to be dead soon._

“Hey. Rich.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Bill. Got a minute?” _What a treat he is_.

“I’m a little slammed at the moment," Richie said. "Body slammed.”

They shared a hushed giggle. “Do you need help?”

“All kinds.”

“I'll give you my therapist's number,” Bill whispered.

Richie craned his neck upward, doing his best to look at Bill. “I dunno, my gambling and sex addictions have my week pretty wall-to-wall, know what I mean?”

"Hopeless," he said. “I'm getting up if you're bored, by the way.”

Richie coughed. “Gimme a sec, Stan’s heavier than _Deliverance._ ”

“Starting your day off right.” Stan leaned his full weight back against Richie. Even though he was facing certain death, he noticed that they both smelled a bit like a river. (His sudden awareness of his nose prompted it to begin throbbing.) “Who needs Raisin Bran when you’ve got tasteless jokes.”

Richie found himself wondering if Vincent Price would want to hang out with him or not. _Maybe I’d get along better with Freddie Mercury - oh god! Did I just hear something crack?!_ It sounded like Bill spat all over himself trying not to laugh. Richie wasn't sure if he should be insulted or just accept that they were Bill's personal Statler and Waldorf. He was in total hysterics last summer when Stan and Richie came closest to vitally injuring each other in a fist fight. What started it was a mystery, but it took both Mike, Ben, and a scalding haranguing from Beverly to pry them apart. _We might be kind of stupid_ , Richie thought.

“I give,” he wheezed, frantically patting Stan’s ass. “Tap out, tap out!” A soft Beverly noise interrupted them and Richie felt the blankets shift. They froze. “Wake her up and I'll break you in half,” Stan hissed. He finally relented. There was a growl in his voice that Richie would have thought was kind of sexy had he not just damn near punctured one of his lungs. He always had the pissiest hangovers.

“You know, you used to be a morning person.”

“That Stan is dead.”

Richie gulped. “Remind me to send flowers.” Stan granted him an amused little hum before turning away.

There was enough space, at last, to catch his breath and dislodge himself from the fuckpile that went horribly wrong. _You think it's impossible until it happens to you_. Richie eased his way out of the trunk - careful not to move his weight about too much - and out into the early morning mist. A thin layer of dew blanketed his bare skin and he shivered, hating life. The unrelenting wind at the beach was better than this stagnant moisture they woke up to inland. But the summers got hotter every year and the humidity made the pine forest feel like a fucking jungle.

“Think fast.”

Richie looked up just in time to catch a hoodie - Bill's dark blue hoodie. It had definitely been sitting in his car for a few months, but it smelled like him. “Thank ye kindly.” It was the same color as the bed sheets he remembered from their childhood sleepovers. Richie randomly thought about how Bill's room smelled like his damn hamster. The little guy crapped on him every time he held him, but it was nice to own a pet vicariously through friends. It wasn’t like his parents ever made good on the _“maybe next year, kiddo”_ line.

“Rich.”

He snapped out of his reverie. “Cripes - back from space, sorry about that.”

Bill smiled. “Sleep okay?”

It was an innocent enough question, but the subtle arch of Bill’s eyebrows told him that, yes, he knew about last night, and yes, he wanted to hear about it. _Nice try, pinko_. Richie noodled his arms into the jacket sleeves. “Absolutely. Slept like a rock on a hard surface - just like I'm sure Stanley-dear did at scout camp.”

“Hmm.” He switched his attention from Richie's face to the ashes in the fire pit. “Guessing you slept through Mike and Eddie leaving?”

Richie peeked into the car through its foggy windows. Eddie's sleeping bag was indeed empty. “He probably woke up gnawing on his sleeping bag, poor lamb.”

“I don't remember eating anything before we destroyed that bag of pretzels at 1 am, so I don’t blame him.” Bill stretched his arms over his head and Richie heard a tendon snap. “Man, I'd kill for some toast.”

 _I Was A Teenage Grandad_.

“Such decadence, Bill. God, we’ve spoiled you,” Richie muttered.

He reached in through the hatch and grabbed a pair of toothbrushes, then tossed one to Bill. They stood at opposite ends of the camp, hocking toothpaste into the low scrub brush. Maybe he was in the last throes of drunkenness, but Richie could have sworn he saw a little streak of green in the pines. _Oh, no. I’m losing it_ . His father had been threatening him with those dumb kiddie tapes with the dental hygiene dinosaur every time he caught Richie smoking. He heard that squat little fucker in his head, chirping “ _make sure you brush for two minutes, Richie!_ ” Better out in the woods than in his room trying to jack off. “ _Don’t swallow your toothpaste, Richie!_ ” In reality - stony, dusty, reality - it was some damn bird tittering out in the trees.

He could tell some awkward conversation was trying to happen. It could have been about graduation, or the _group activities_ , or the past four years of pure weirdness. At that point in the morning, in his current state, Richie wasn't really up to a serious tête-à-tête with Big Bill. They had a stupid, horny bird filling their awkward, spitty silence instead. _Most appropriate._

“Question.”

 _And they're off._ “Shoot.”

“When are you leaving?”

The question sounded generic enough, but they both knew what it meant. Richie had considered it before, but his mouth went off first. “Can't wait to get rid of me, huh?” Bill watched him from across the fire pit. There was a gentle yet stern look in his eyes that wiped the goofy jokester smile clean off Richie’s face. He shrugged.

“Sorry to b-bring it up. I didn't want to, but it’s been bugging me since last nuh-nuh-n-night,” he said dolefully. Richie squinted. “Who's guh-going. Who's staying.”

_Darling, you guh-got to let me know..._

Richie took a seat on one of the log benches. (He ignored the dampness sinking into the thin fabric of his shorts and boxers.) The unspoken agreement that everyone was to leave town that summer didn't make much sense to him but it still loved to haunt him in his down time. Ben, Bill, and Stan were the only ones who had solid plans. Mike had a solid plan that none of them liked. But Eddie, Beverly, and Richie were “undeclared” - in every sense of the word. Who knew when they would finally kiss their shitty hometown goodbye?

**_What are you going to do?_ **

_That didn't sound right_ , Richie thought. “Huh?”

**_What are you going to do with yourself?_ **

Richie shook his head. It felt like a bee's nest. “What?”

“I said -” **_What are you going to do about the group?_ **

“The what now?”

“The _rest of the summer_ , dude.” Bill joined him on the bench. “Sure you're not still drunk?”

He took a moment to let the questions Bill hadn't asked skip across his stream of thoughts. Skip they did because he couldn’t make sense of it - a whole lot of nothing.

“As sure as I am about the rest of the summer, I guess,” Richie mumbled, looking down at his bug-bitten ankles. A mist had moved in around them. It brought with it an insistent eeriness and Richie jokingly wondered if Bill was about to tell him a ghost story. _Bill’s the ghost, you goose, remember? Mr. “Most Likely To Have Probably Died”?_

“Things are gonna suck real hard when we start leaving,” Bill said.

“Understatement of the frickin' century." Richie knew they were all sharing some sort of pain in spite of how good they felt all together. He was waiting for the moment when Sunday really dropped the axe on them. Things had gone from “I missed you guys” to “who will it be next?” Richie knew exactly what was scaring him: leaving the nest and moving on into adulthood. It felt worse than a knife-wielding murderer because it was both slow and predictable. “What is this, Bill?” They shared a glance. Bill looked down at his feet, rubbing his palms together between his knees.

_Oh, no reason, Rich! Just dancing around the fact that I’m gonna take off again and all of the good little feelings we were starting to feel are gonna fuck right off with me!_

Why did Bill do anything? He was hard to figure out when they were kids, and he grew up to be even more inscrutable. Bill was a normal, dumb teen like the rest of them, the difference was he saw things most people didn’t. Bill saw strange things and Richie knew this well. His life turned into an episode of _Unsolved Mysteries_ after Georgie went missing. He spent so much time up in his own head doing god knows what. Sometimes it felt like Bill was standing behind a big pane of glass, observing an experiment. Richie didn't know, nor did he want to know, why he felt like he was part of it.

“Sorry," Bill said. "Stayed up kinda late and started thinking too hard about stuff.”

Richie waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, dude.”

“Something else, though.” Bill scratched his head and Richie went back to staring at the ground. “About Bev.”

 _Oh, god._ “What about her?”

“Not that I think you’d ever stop or anything, but...look after her, okay?”

Instead of saying “ _she can look after herself just fine_ ”, he countered. “Where are you going?”

Bill looked past Richie, somewhere off into the pines. “P-promise me, okay?”

“Shit, _of course_ , but -”

“Solid. Thanks.”

Richie was almost convinced that dear cryptic, enigmatic Bill Denbrough was crazier than a shit-house rat. He wanted to argue, but Bill’s honest, bright smile took the air right out of his lungs. Some deranged thought like _“I put it there, I made Bill happy. Thank god. Saints be praised,”_ ticked through Richie’s head.

Still, he felt a little like he had been cursed. Not only did Bill just admit that he was about to disappear, he also made Richie question his near-unshakable faith in Beverly to cope. The weird Bill and Bev rainbow connection was their thing - Richie didn't understand it and he never would. But Richie knew them. He knew Bill wouldn't even dream of questioning Beverly unless he had a damn good reason.

 _I'm done. I'm not going to talk about this or think about it anymore, I'm_ out _._

The sound of approaching footsteps ended their conversation. Richie nor Bill would bring it up again - skipping town, Beverly, nothing. He would keep his mouth shut when Bill left without a word one week later. He would keep his mouth shut a year later when he finally packed his bags. No goodbyes, no hugs, no cryfests - they would both go the same way.

_Thanks a lot, Bill._

“Oh. You’re up,” Eddie remarked with dull surprise.

He and Mike bustled up to the fire pit carrying several white plastic bags on each arm like they'd just hit up a tag sale. Richie immediately recognized them as diner takeout bags - the ones that read “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU” in big, pink letters, that he found himself agreeing with as many times.

“And you, my man, are laden with bags of food - here, let me ease your burden, weary traveller, gimme that bacon -”

Eddie gave him a warning look. “Nuh-uh. Back the fuck off, Rich, I’m serious.”

Mike passed a bag to Bill, rolling his eyes. “I knew we should’ve asked for two orders.”

“Ain’t that always the way it is,” Richie sighed. He made for a sly grab, but Eddie struck him like an angry little viper.

“Thanks, guys,” Bill said between the rustles of bags and clicks of Styrofoam boxes. “Wasn’t stoked about fucking with that c-c-c-c...camp stove.”

“Stan’s the only one who’s any good with it,” Eddie said. “And he’s not about to wake up and make us eggs, I don’t think.”

After having to beg for his life, Richie was certain Stan wasn’t about to wake up and do anything pleasant. “I reckon so.”

“Should we get them up, though?” He mumbled shyly around a corner of toast. _Cute_.

“Let the lovebirds catch a few more z’s, Eds.” Richie winked. The way Eddie blushed and took another quick peek at the dim, quiet car wasn’t subtle. He learned a few _very_ interesting things about Eddie the night before. His demure nature wasn't so natural, for one. It could have been a Haley’s Comet deal where prom night was his once-in-a-lifetime chance to catch Eddie allowing himself a little grab-ass. _God, let’s hope not_.

A car door _ker-thunked_ open and Ben poked his head up like a meerkat. “Is that food?”

“Could be. Depends on what percentage of grease content kills all nutritional value,” Mike replied.

Richie snorted. “You think we’d learn that in health class but, noooo, we just get to watch that freaky childbirth video while Mr. Masterton cries behind the projector.”

Eddie stopped shoveling hash browns into his mouth and fixed Richie with a hollow stare. “He does that every year.”

Mike smirked. "Didn't he give you detention for pretending to hurl?"

"I wasn't pretending," Eddie said.

“Anyway, I’ll risk it,” Ben said, fiddling his shirt on. “Hangover days are cheat days - oh shit, is that bacon?”

“No. You’re hallucinating.” Richie flapped a bacon strip in Ben’s direction, nearly slapping it against Eddie's face. “We’re doing the thing from _Hook_. We’re actually starving to death and Peter Pan can’t save us.”

“Shut up.” Ben lightly elbowed the back of Richie’s head on his way past.

“Yes, dear.”

Ben grunted. Richie would be saying goodbye to Ben Hanscom in a matter of weeks. He would be standing in front of his house, still wondering how someone so endearing could rearrange a guy’s face the way he did at their senior prom. There was also a lingering frustration at taking such a long time to realize how much he liked Ben. He'd be feeling that for years.

There was a hint of color in Ben's cheeks when he looked back at Richie after sitting himself next to Mike. _Cute_.

They spent an hour swapping absurd stories from the past four years - a walking tour of Derry High so to speak. There were a few new ones like Eddie catapulting his frog in biology, and Mike and Austin being forced to play on the Girl's volleyball team after injuring two of the members in a horrible Gatorade accident. Richie found himself laughing so hard his face started hurting. It felt a little like insanity, but there were some good, solid chucks mixed in with all the shit they struggled through. He was oddly moved by their wild passage through high school, how they came out laughing on the other side.

Their talk escalated in volume until the remaining two gave up on their hangover sleep. The only thing that saved them from a firm cuss-out was a humble and apologetic offering of pancakes. Stan and Beverly took their places in the circle and Richie felt like everything was finally, fleetingly, right.

Beverly, in all her crop-topped glory, sat across from him wolfing down condensation-soaked leftovers. He thought for a moment that Bill was an idiot and she would be fine. But he noticed her glancing at each of them every few minutes, her mouth turned down in a worried little arc. Stan graced Ben with a nod when he was given his share of breakfast, but he watched everyone the same way. Neither had the wherewithal to speak. Richie began to fear Bill was right.

 

By 2 o'clock, when they were packing up to leave, the night before had faded into a bizarre dream.

Come Monday, they would be back to their usual routines, back to graduation, and back to slogging through their final week of classes - back to being terrified of jumping into a world more brutal than high school.

Prom, as much as it sucked, was their “last hurrah”.

But Richie was skeptical; losers weren’t really meant to have hurrahs.

The following year would spread them thinner and thinner while Derry became a more transparent thing. A _thing_. The town, they would find, was an entity itself and the only thing between them and it was a very thin curtain.

 _Bill_ was _right,_ he'd think. _Bill was fucking right._

 

 

 

**-END-**

 

 

 

**\---**

 ("Don't You Forget About Me" blaring in the distance.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a risk with this here thing and just let it develop organically. The next part (parts if I’m lucky enough to get that far) will be posted as a consistent, complete thing so it’s gonna be a while. I will say that the tone is going to shift a bit and idk - porn but also weird and scary things happen. I do like writing horror and I wanna get better :’) BUT, thank you so much for sticking through this weirdness. I appreciate any interest even for a minute because, hey, I do what I do and it’s neat when other people dig it as well. ESPECIALLY the “Beverly has six boyfriends who are also boyfriends” vibe I love so well. That’s not a super popular angle even though…it is very, very good.
> 
>  
> 
> ANYWAY! Thank you.  
> My tumblr main is bearsquares (IT tag is “it posting”, fic recs are under “fic recs” - otherwise it’s a lot of random shit)  
> ...and my art blog is chilidogpaella (chock full of losers who love to kiss - the NSFW stuff is linked).


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I have no self control so I wrote an epilogue. But hey! Even number of chapters! I also think it fits better here than it would in the next installment which I am definitely still working on! I kind of operate in a feedback loop with other ‘verses/media/ideas to keep the flow going. We’re moving along.
> 
> Oh, and there’s actually Ben/Stan. Sten. I decree this one syllable ship name. Set sail, brave little rarepair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When nothing's sacred anymore  
> When the demon's knocking on your door  
> You'll still be staring down at the floor
> 
> “Swamp Thing”, The Chameleons

 

 

Something began to haunt Stanley the day after high school graduation.

He had grown used to feeling a low and constant bad all the time so he didn't notice it at first, but by mid-July, Stan truly believed he was losing his mind.

Whatever it was that had moved in with him was relentless - brutal, even. It especially liked to press down on his straight shoulders, tire out his lungs, and hang off the very tips of his fingers like lead weights. It came to hurt so much that all he wanted to do was sleep but that proved difficult. Weeks of restless sleep had him feeling less and less human, like all sense was bleeding out of him. He laid awake in his silent room night after night, lying on top of his bed sheets because he hated being covered. Sleep never came easily. Sometimes he didn't fall asleep until the early morning chatter and whistles of robins began to drift through his open window.

His bedroom window was open on the afternoon of July 21st. He only remembered the date because it was Friday: the day Ben was leaving Derry.

The Stanley Uris from two months ago would have been over at Ben’s all week, reminding everyone to bring empty boxes and trash bags. The Stanley Uris from two months ago would take over organizing the whole thing like a construction foreman because he could get a little pushy like that. But he never showed up to help Ben pack with everyone else.

He wasn’t there with the others getting their last laughs, and memories of having six instead of five, because he was sleeping. He was sleeping and dreaming of nothing. He could have dreamed about them - _nice_ dreams, not scenarios where they forgot him, or hated him, or were better off without him. But that was too kind. Whatever was wrong with him was a mean thing, a bitter, evil thing, and he was afraid of it. He was afraid it was something that had always lurked deep inside of him - but that was better than the alternative. He wouldn't consider any other possible explanation. It was for his own safety.

These thoughts were stuck on repeat in his mind. He played them over and over while he watched the elm tree outside of his window lean sleepily with the breeze. It was hot enough to singe the leaves off the branches but the tree continued its passive sway, submissively turning its leaves with each hot gust of wind.

Stan had been buttoning his shirt when he felt the sinking feeling coming on. He on the edge of his bed, dizzy and light-headed. Balmy air flooded into his room, crowding around him and stoppering his throat like invisible napalm. He didn’t think to shut the window. His hands were still, halfway up his chest, pinching a pearly white button between his fingers. Stan's heartbeat thudded in his ears, harmonizing with his miserable, tight breaths, backing his miserable thoughts, and the world was too heavy. Far too heavy for him.

But he had to leave; it was already 3.

 

 

The air was hot, and storm clouds were gathering out toward the mountains, but Stan chose to walk halfway across town to Ben’s house.

He walked with his head down, watching his dirty sneakers skipping the cracks in the sidewalk. Sweat gathering at the curve of his lower back. He hated it. He didn't want to be outside. Outside squeezed in around him and that sinking feeling seemed to love it - it seemed to love that he kept having to stop to catch his breath, like his tired, bad feelings were riding piggyback. It must have been squealing with glee like a devious, spoiled child.

 _This is why I didn’t want to leave_ , he thought to himself, _this is dirty, this is gross, and I hate being dirty and gross - I hate it_.

He shouldn’t have blown Eddie off when he called earlier that week. There was no message, but Stan was pretty sure Eddie meant to offer him a ride, and maybe ask if he wanted to join them. It was best he didn't considering how long Stan had spent just buttoning his shirt and tying his shoes. He spent even longer worrying over his face. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in about a week and he came close to giving up on leaving the house that day. Spots of acne were flaring up in the hollows of his cheeks, his lips were pale, and there were blood-swollen circles under his eyes. It took everything he had to move on and stop beating himself up for falling out of step. Stan had followed the same strict hygiene regimen every day for the past 4 years, after all, and he prided himself on it. Looking in the mirror now was just a reminder of how hard he’d crashed, how weak he had become, over _nothing_. But he loved Ben too dearly to hide. The only person who cared about Stan’s flaws was Stan, as Dr. Morgan would say. Stan agreed with a grim and silent nod as if he were sitting in her office.

He stopped again to breathe, and bent over to place his hands on his knees, thinking, _this must be how Bill felt_ . A heavy scent washed over him then: dryer sheets, and detergents. He had found his way to The Washateria, somehow. He was surprised it was still around, but it was the only laundromat left in the city center now - _someone_ had to use it. The air may have smelled nice on a normal day, but the mixture of today's humidity with a cocktail of perfumes made the sidewalk feel like a dryer on high heat. The urge to vomit crept up his throat. Stan shouldered through the door, into the air-conditioning.

He had never been inside the place before, but it always captured his attention every time he passed. Maybe it was the wall of dryers with its colorful streaks of clothing, or the lonely _Gunsmoke_ cabinet in the corner. He wondered what life was like for folks who still dragged their dirty laundry around and siphoned amusement from shitty old arcade games. Plenty of those folks were sitting with magazines in plastic chairs, letting their asses fall asleep while they waited. No one looked up from their newspapers or gossip rags when Stan stumbled over to a free chair - some ugly 70’s orange color, bumpy and slotted like a classroom chair. At least it was cold.

He scanned the large, open room. There were new fluorescent ceiling lights, rusting laundry carts, and hulking washing machines back to back. But he couldn't stop looking at the wall of double-stacked dryers - they were fascinating to him. The clothes turning over and over inside seemed so bright and colorful, like, Stan thought with growing revulsion, tumble-drying clown suits.

He tore his eyes away from the hypnotic swirl of laundry and noticed a small group of kids across the room. They sat crowded together on one of the benches beneath the front window. There were four of them, huddled together with their little noses almost touching like they were planning a heist. Stan used to run amok with friends, he was familiar with the kinds of looks reserved for young people and bums. But no adult in the building seemed to acknowledge the kids, not even one suspicious over-the-newspaper glance. It was almost like they weren't there at all.

The sinking feeling hiccuped in his chest. Or maybe it giggled, delighted that he was finally going to crack.

One of the kids looked up at him, a round-faced boy with a soft, understanding brow. _So familiar._ Stan licked at the roof of his mouth, parched like someone had stuffed his mouth full of cotton balls. He crazily thought about downing a bottle of detergent. _I'm getting there,_ he thought. Soon he would throw sanity to the wind and start his new life of staring at ghostly kids and sipping fabric softener in public.

The boy’s face didn't bother him as much as the feeling of seeing one thing and knowing it was something else. He was looking at four children but they didn’t feel like children at all. The boy held his gaze and he could hear the others whispering.

_“I saw something different.”_

_“I saw a -”_

_"Shh!"_

At least, he thought he did.

A thin arm reached over and tapped the boy's shoulder, drawing his attention back to the huddle. Their little circle cemented itself shut.

 _Get it together, Stanley_ , he thought. If he didn’t hurry, he’d either show up at Ben’s in the dark or the idling thunderstorm would catch up with him. _Get it together and go._

 

 

It was late afternoon by the time Ben's modest house swung into view. The trees had become full, dark silhouettes against the peach-colored sky, fading quickly with the sunset. The street lamps hadn’t yet flickered on, but the porch light on Ben's house lit his front lawn so bright it was like noon.

Mike, Beverly, Ben, and Eddie sat crammed together on the front steps. Richie sat cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of them, lankier now, taking up way more space than he did a month ago. Ben’s mom’s red station wagon sat in the driveway with boxes piled high in the trunk and backseat. Stan hated how it looked - it was a Kodak moment, alright. _What a nice little send-off_ . “ _Look at these teens, look at this perfect picture of growing up. Oh, how precious are the carefree lives of the young.”_

Stan strolled up in his usual quiet way, calm save for the way he rubbed intently at his knuckles.

Ben noticed him first. He smile in greeting, with such a heartbreaking, grateful look on his face that guilt smacked Stan right in the gut. Stan reflexively placed a hand over his stomach. He wondered if spending time with Ben before that afternoon would have helped at all.

“Hey, Stan.” Eddie waved.

He and Ben were so close in high school but there was no anxious crease between his eyebrows today, no fiddling with his hands, no _inhaler._ It looked like a pretty good evening for Eddie, all things considered.

 _Maybe it’s because he’s too worried about catching meningitis to be a complete emotional wreck - oh god, don’t be like that_. “Hey.”

Richie leaned back and regarded him upside down. A pair of cereal box X-Ray Spex sat askew on his crooked nose, ready to slip off his ridiculous face. “Stan the _Man_! It’s been a dog’s age, compadre! How’re the wife and kids?”

Beverly, practically swimming in a blue and yellow tie-dyed shirt (one of Bill’s), kicked the sole of Richie’s sneaker to shut him up.

Stan had almost forgotten about Beverly - or the shit going on in his head tried to make him forget. He used to daydream about her - sometimes in class, mostly while he waited for Erica to get out of youth group. The handful of times she fixed his collar when they were younger. And how it felt when she playfully ruffled his hair. Now he couldn't look away from her thighs.

They made brief eye contact and he felt something other than guilt for a moment. The physical-emotional memory of falling asleep with her came rushing back. And swapping spit in the woods after prom. And swapping other things in the quarry lake.

“Please tell me you’re all taking a break.” Stan said.

“Hey, you know, don’t feel bad, Staniel, it wasn’t _too_ hump-busting -”

“Don’t worry, we didn’t help at all,” Mike said.

Richie scowled at him. “Watch it, Mikey, or I’ll bust _your_ hump.”

“Wow, I, uh, really don’t know how to feel about that.”

Ben shrugged. “It’s seriously no problem. Eddie and Bev showed up at 9 am and had the car packed before I was even awake.”.

“What? You were awake, man. You carried most of the boxes!” Eddie squawked.

“I wasn't awake. Trust me. You guys did it like a crime scene cleanup job. It was awesome.”

Beverly whapped Eddie’s knee affectionately. “We just work together like a couple’a pros, don’t we?”

He stared down at his sneakers and nodded, embarrassed by the attention. The temptation to embarrass him further needled at Stan just a bit. All he would need to do was reference the little stain-lifting trick Eddie showed him after a little roadside fooling around. Of course he was well-versed the wonders of baking soda. His mom would flip if she found out he’d done anything normal for a teenager.

“Come on and rest a spell, my man.” Richie patted the concrete next to him.

“Nah, my ass'll fall asleep.” Stan said it in such a manner that Beverly giggled. Something about it made him feel lighter and he fought back a giggle of his own.

“P’shaw. My ass feels great - wide awake and fresh as a daisy.”

“Not with _your_ chronic mud-butt,” Eddie said.

Richie scoffed dismissively. “Bev can vouch for my immaculate undies. Right, darling? Light of my life?”

“You mean the ones with the racing stripes?”

“BEVERLY MARSH.”

Mike and Ben were already fighting back tears while the two carried on. Stan realized he felt okay right then. He felt good enough to smile for the first time in weeks.

 

 

It was well after dark when Mike said, “well, I’ve got work in the morning…”

They had been joking and telling stories seconds before, but the mood turned immediately. Their raucous laughter petered out to a solemn quiet. _To think that’s all it takes_ , Stan thought. As much as he loved them, as good as he felt with them, there was something horrible about The Losers Club. Together they were like a drug: the high, the crash, the withdrawal. He knew for a fact that the feeling of being strangled by nothing would invite itself back in the second Mike left. As much as Stan wanted to rely on the others, he knew it was hopeless.

The thing clinging to him seemed to squeeze tighter in a compelling _yes,_ a “ _yes, I told you so, I told you so!_ ”

Beverly mumbled something about walking back with Mike. They all stood, and Stan moved with them, he thought, involuntarily. He remembered Richie complaining about Catholic mass when they were kids - _“sit down, stand up, sit down, stand up - it’s pointless!”_

“Uh, Bev - before you go...” Ben reached into his back pocket. The group watched in quiet reverence as he placed a cassette tape in Beverly’s hand. “Nothing I wrote sounded cool, so I just drew a stupid crab.”

Richie laughed. He was the instigator of the “crab incident” but the memory only succeeded in dragging Stan into last year. Last summer, before any of them even thought about leaving Derry or each other. Things were tough for them then, but there was hope in that hindsight, there were wild, innocent thoughts of how things could have been different between then and now. There was still hope that they could be together again.

Beverly's voice warbled as if she was standing at the other end of a tunnel. “You’re the one leaving, Ben, what the hell…”

Being with them that night felt like holding hands and feeling only them, only their love and sadness. He wanted to struggle away, run for his life - the sheer force of the nostalgia passing between them was dizzying, threatening to knock him to the ground.

Stan's forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He tried to wipe his face dry with his shirt sleeve as discreetly as possible. No one else was on the verge of a panic attack - no one else was struggling to breathe because something was squeezing their entire chest.

_Why is it killing me? Why is being with them killing me? Stop remembering things, stop fucking feeling things, Stan, you don't need to feel this!_

A hand came to rest at the sway of Stan's back. His mental babbling stopped. He didn't have to look to know that it was Eddie. The atmosphere seemed to hiss and release like a blood pressure cuff.

Beverly was now hugging Ben's neck, her feet kicked up almost a foot above the sidewalk. Ben hesitated before wrapping his arms around Beverly’s waist, hugging her as tight as he dared. Between Eddie's calming touch and the raw love he felt for the two of them, Stan could have wept where he stood.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she said, muffled against his shoulder. “I love you, Ben.”

“What the fuck!”

At the sound of Richie's voice, the other five snapped back to the top of their little happiness thermometer. Stan felt it move like a roller coaster and crossed his arms tight across his middle.

 _What am I thinking? I’m okay. I’m okay, damnit. I’m fine_.

Richie’s eyes were glistening. “Don't I get a passionate embrace, Hayst-ACK!” His voice died in an unusual squeak as Mike scooped him off the ground. Richie's spindly legs dangled over Mike's well-muscled arm. He was briefly stunned, regarding Mike with the face of a startled four-year-old. “Jesus, Mike! _Yes_! I accept! Let’s set a date!”

“This is the happiest day of my life,” Mike sniffed.

Richie surrendered lustily in his arms. “Carry me over the threshold, lover.”

It set off another round of hysterics. Ben and Beverly laughed until their faces flushed bright red; Mike buried his tear-streaked face in the front of Richie’s shirt; Eddie sounded more like a sick dog than a human being. They were all crazy and the realization was both unsettling and freeing. _At least I'm not alone,_ Stan thought.

“Alright, ride’s over,” Mike said breathlessly and set him back down.

“Man, now I know what I’ve been missin’. Endless perks of being short, right, Eds?”

“Shut your mouth.”

Ben nudged Eddie, still grinning. “Once was enough, huh?”

“Are you _blushing_ , Eds?” Richie looked between them like a quizzical bird. “Ben, he’s blushing! What did you do?”

“What, when I carried him?”

Eddie threw himself at Ben, and, using the extra two inches he’d gained that month, trapped him in a headlock. The laughter roared back. The sadness from moments before was erased like an extra letter, or a misplaced comma - something insignificant that no one would remember an hour later. Stan could have imagined the entire scene. But there was the mixtape from Ben, secure in Beverly’s back pocket.

 

 

They gave Ben (and each other) long, tight hugs, and the extreme heaviness came creeping back.

Eddie, with his usual curt smile in place, waved before ushering Richie off toward his car. Even though Richie jovially slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders as they walked, he was an easy read that night. Stan knew, almost heard in his head, that he was waiting to get home before he would cry. (Judging by the way Eddie reciprocated the side hug, he sensed it as well.)

Stan watched Beverly and Mike walking off side-by-side. He still felt where Mike's arms had crossed over his back and the smaller, shorter space where Beverly had leaned into him. He had forgotten how good it felt to touch them. Stan had missed them almost to the point of an ache and seeing them so close together made that pain flare anew. As night swallowed them, Mike circled an arm around Beverly, whose shoulders now jerked with silent sobs.

A little voice again said, “ _I told you so._ ”

Stan felt a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Wanna see how weird my room looks now?”

He turned to face Ben. They stood perfectly eye-to-eye for the second summer in a row, almost as if they were meant to be equally there together. He realized with a dull agony that his friendship with Ben was the closest he’d ever come to having a twin. They looked nothing alike, but they could speak without thinking sometimes. The separation anxiety was there, too. It was strange but it was real, and he had never felt it more than in the past two months. “If that’s cool.”

Ben smiled easily. “Always cool.”

Stan had only been in Ben’s room once or twice. He remembered it being cramped and cluttered with books and models. The walls, once papered with maps and posters, were now bare - wood-paneled, Stan noticed. _No wonder he covered it up_.

“Is there anything I can…?”

Ben shook his head, taking a seat on the floor. “We did everything but turn the damn key.”

He thought about the red Volvo again, as if to mentally check that it was still sitting in the driveway full of Ben’s modest belongings, ready to whisk him away. “Mom’s going with you, right?”

“Yeah, she’ll be home in a few hours. I’m gonna drive most of the way, though. Y'know. Mama needs her z’s.”

Stan ignored his shirt untucking itself while he sat down next to Ben. “How long is it gonna take?”

“Planned on four days, maybe three if we make good time,” Ben said.

 _And what will I be doing four days from now? What the hell am I doing_ _?_ “Promise me you’ll stop and see the world’s biggest chair.”

“How could I not? I’ve sat on so many chairs, it’s like a pilgrimage for people who sit on chairs.”

Stan managed a humorless laugh. It hit him that there would be no Ben Hanscom in Derry tomorrow morning. There was sadness, an urge to cry that he knew the others were feeling, but Stan felt something else: disgust. Ben having to leave them was a taunt, a reminder of how powerless they were. He knew the leaving was final, somehow, and the universe had no goddamn right to take another away. It took Bill out of nowhere and no one had a chance to say goodbye, but the pain of losing Ben had been like peeling off a band-aid. He wondered if the same pain would linger after both of them. Would one feel worse than the other, or were they simply feeling their missing pieces falling away?

Ben tilted his head to look at Stan. “You okay, man?”

He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling but decided to answer truthfully. “I don't think I can take something like this happening again.”

“I don't blame you," Ben said. "I _really_ don't want to leave you guys. I mean, I have to, and I’m _going_ to, but it feels like something’s trying to stop me.”

“Pretty weird.” He didn’t have it in him to say, _I know exactly what you mean. I know how it feels to have this town sink its teeth into you...and us._

“You’ve felt it.”

“I guess.”

“...I know why Bill left now.”

Stan's stomach lurched. His hand flew up to protect his middle. It had only been a few weeks since he skipped town but all Stan could remember was how fucking mad Bill made him. He spent years convinced that Bill was crazy. Losing Georgie knocked something loose and he abandoned logic - sometimes common decency. Stan resented him for it. There was something else, though, and the more Stanley thought about his own slip into some horrible _betweenness_ , he remembered the same madness in Bill. There was the far off look on his face, the dark circles underlining his murky eyes, the way he laughed hysterically for no reason, the time he spent alone.

Bill had been sinking for years.

Ben lifted Stan’s arm away from its guarded position. Their hands fit together; Ben’s rough and warm while Stan’s were always cold.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

Ben held his gaze, reading him. “As long as you’re here, don’t shut them out. Don’t let go of them. Even if you’re convinced everyone hates you...don't make that mistake. Can you promise me that?”

Ben was asking him if he could find it in him smother the anxiety he felt at the thought of burdening the people he loved. Stan knew burdens, he knew _weight_ . Every single thing he felt became a burden, even the most pointless things like cracking the dial on his locker or smiling. But he also remembered when getting out of bed felt impossible, and being alive was exhausting. Ben was there. Ben was with him that year and rarely left his side. Stan thought, however dramatic it was, that he'd be dead if it weren't for Ben. But why _Ben_? Why not someone he had grown up with like Richie or Eddie? Why not Mike?

_Because he’s your friend, you idiot._

“Consider it promised.”

Stan heard Ben say, “thank you.” But he felt: _Thank you for letting me in_.

Tears stung his eyes and he realized he had been gripping hard enough to bruise. Stan relaxed his hand. “Sorry.”

Ben only smiled. He never did mind pain. “I love you, Stan. Know why?"

He fought back a weak smile, his urge to cry now tugging at his mouth, and shook his head. “God, no.”

“You’re still here. Even though things come to you different and you keep getting dragged everywhere you don't want to be. I see it all over your face sometimes, even outside tonight, and I’m sorry about -”

“Ben, it’s okay.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I know you're still hurting, man. I can almost feel how much - I'll never know ‘cause I'm not you, but...I love you - _they_ love you. You deserve every bit of it, too.” Ben rested his palm against Stan's thin cheek. He could have melted when Ben stroked his fingers down over his jaw, traced his cheekbone with his thumb. “You don’t have to believe me, but that’s how I feel.”

“You feel things pretty well…”

They looked at each other for a beat before Stan leaned in and pressed their lips together. He was never quite as good with words.

Ben found his shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist, gathering him closer and kissing his neck until he was high on the rasp of Ben’s three-day scruff against his skin. There were a few nights in late June like this, where he drew Stan out. Nights where Ben palmed the front of his pants, teased him hard and kissed his every gasp and moan quiet. Stan responded in kind, reliving Ben’s sun-tanned shoulders, and his chest, down past the stomach roll he never lost, down, down to pop the button on his jeans.

It wasn’t just a comforting arm around his shoulders anymore, it was closeness and sweat and power. It was Bill Denbrough toasting their survival. It was drunk Beverly Marsh whispering that it felt good to be in love with your best friends. And it was enough that, for just a while, Stan had never been depressed, or on the brink of suicide in his life. He was a man kicking a lamp over in his rush to undress, missing the mattress completely, not even stopping to laugh about it. All that was left of them were sharp breaths and grateful swears cutting the ringing silence in Ben’s stripped out bedroom. This was it for them.

It was the last time he would ever see Ben.

 

 

It was 3 am.

Ben was asleep under a sheet in his empty room while Stan crossed Center Street a mile away, halfway home.

Had it not been for the constant trill of summer crickets, the street would have been eerily quiet. Derry's finest: dark windows, locked doors, drawn blinds. In Stanley's opinion, the dingy, yellow street lights were the true showpieces of Derry’s sick display. They painted his hands and forearms with glowing jaundice, and he felt weak and naked, vulnerable out in the town by himself. It was a reminder that he and the others were still there because it wanted them there, as Ben had said.

He thought, in his brain-addled sleep deprivation, that he could hear it if he wanted, even speak to it. He would ask it why it wouldn’t let them leave and it would probably reply, “ _because I want you to go insane_.”

Some bold version of Stan would then ask how it planned to do that.

Derry would tell him, " _if you knew, you would tear your own eyes out of your head, Stanley, you would slit your wrists, you would be open in more ways than one and, trust me, kid, you would do everything it takes to_ die."

It was a crazy thought that he would never have dreamed of entertaining a month ago, but there was something about him that had opened up. Something about 3, maybe.

But the midsummer night droned on around him, like an invisible reassurance that streets, and houses, and stop lights couldn’t hurt him, so he pushed the sour thought out of his mind. He wouldn’t dwell on it; he would crawl up the trellis to his bedroom where he would lay awake like he did every night. But Stan would think about Ben. He would remember how he felt running his fingers through his short hair while he dozed across his chest, and perhaps he would doze off himself.

A glint caught his eye, and it was bright, almost like a star winking out in the far corner of his periphery.

When he turned his head, there was nothing but a tent of yellowish light beaming down on a typical storm drain. It could have been a still life - except for the little silvery streak that had zipped right in front of it.

_And paintings don’t move. You bet your ass they don’t._

It must have been a rat scurrying down the drain with some garbage or discarded food. That made perfect sense and Stan was satisfied with it. There was nothing weird or eerie about rats living in the sewer. He affirmed this over and over in his head while he continued his walk. Rats live in the sewer and Stan Uris is going to be okay.

Tonight he could ignore the watchful eyes of things he couldn’t comprehend, and drown the small voices whispering low in the back corners of his mind. The things that manipulated his emotions would speak to him in vain, for now at least.

His tired thoughts returned to Ben. The sinking feeling that pressed down on his straight shoulders, tired out his lungs, and hung off the very tips of his fingers like lead weights had receded. His friends once again occupied his heart instead.

 

 

_...you would slit your wrists...if only you knew..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan might be one of my favorites to write in this AU - definitely not the easiest but I feel like I can access some interesting voices for this character, even when he’s in good health. He's very orderly in some ways but there are some seriously chaotic elements to his character when it comes to the unnatural. I tried to play around with them here.
> 
> I recently wrote some meta on why he’s such a good character (in the novel but it still applies):
> 
> → http://bearsquares.tumblr.com/post/174452154862/thinkin-about-stan

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is the longest thing I've ever written.
> 
> If you got this far, you deserve a fuckin' medal. I hope it was good for you.
> 
> Uhhhh...I dunno, I say this a lot, but this seriously started out as a jokey one-shot. I was seriously thinking "lmao prom AUs, teen movies, HA HA what if I made a Hall & Oates songfic". Then I made a playlist because I do that sometimes. And then...I drew them. Now I've got two other parts planned out and in the works. I DON'T KNOW. I just took my hands off the wheel and stuff happened. This has been a HELL of an exercise for all of my writing muscles. I think I'm stronger now.
> 
> I actually prefer writing about the novel Losers Club because I'm more attached to them as characters and related to them more. BUT writing this actually made me look at how the movie improved Bill and Beverly overall. Like, that especially was a really nice thing to figure out. It was also really cathartic to write Richie with more maturity and less...THAT. ANYWAY. It was nice to flesh out relationships and characters and I'm going to continue to do so with these dinguses. So yeah. More emo 90's shit. More spooky monsters. WAY MORE smanging. WAY MORE.
> 
> See you next time.
> 
>  


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